My Ghost
by Redluna
Summary: Years ago, Ron Weasley made a promise to a certian ghost. An opera ghost to be exact.
1. Prologue

**Eek! It has been ages since I updated on this story! Although, I think that I only had one person who actually missed it -laughes-. There are a few changes throughout the story now, however.**

**Warnings: There's going to be slash in this story. If that offends you in any way then don't read this story. Simple as that.**

* * *

After four weeks in Paris, young Ron Weasley had decided that it was one of the greatest places on Earth. He would happily tell anyone that would listen that he wanted to stay in the city for the rest of his life.

It was because of this that he had decided to be much nicer to his Auntie Muriel who had provided the finances for the trip in the first place.

And since it was their last night in the amazing city, Auntie Muriel had decided to bring them to what Ron quickly decided was his most favorite thing in Paris.

The Opera Populaire.

Ron had fallen in love with the opera house the moment he laid eyes on it. It seemed more like a palace than a theatre in its grandeur and its architecture had been crafted to perfection.

But the beauty of the place itself was nothing compared to the wonderful music that lay inside of it, even if the leading soprano, Carlotta Giudicelli, did sound like a toad.

Ron never wanted to leave the opera house so he couldn't stop from sulking a little when he remembered that they were leaving early the next morning.

However, much to his delight, the mangers of the Opera Populaire were so taken with his family that they invited them all to the after party that was being thrown backstage.

His family was ecstatic, of course, and accepted immediately.

So well they were all busy enjoying the party, Ron slipped away to explore the rest of the building.

Which was how he found himself standing in the Chapel of the opera house.

As he inspected the place with his usual amount of childish curiosity, Ron had to admit that it was a rather creepy place to be in. It was far too quiet, even with the party raging above and though he was alone, he still felt like there were eyes following him around the room.

He did his best to calm himself down by thinking of the opera he had just watched and before long he was humming the melody of his favorite song. A huge smile broke out across his face and he burst into song.

_"Think of me_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try_

_When you find_

_That once again you long_

_To take your heart back _

_And be free_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me_

_We never said our love was evergreen _

_Or as unchanging as the sea_

_But if you can still remember_

_Stop and think of me_

_Think of all the things _

_We've shared and seen_

_Don't think about the way_

_Things might have been_

_Think of me, think of me waking_

_Silent and resigned_

_Imagine me, trying to hard_

_To put you from my mind_

_Recall those days_

_Look back on all those times_

_Think of the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day_

_When I won't think of you_

_Flowers fade_

_The fruits of summer fade_

_They have their seasons _

_So do we_

_But please promise me that sometimes_

_You will think _

_Of me!"_

When the last not died upon his lips, Ron couldn't stop himself from giggling as he dipped down in a low bow to an imaginary audience.

But his eyes went wide when clapping filled the room and a voice reached his ears that seemed too beautiful to be that of a human's.

_"Brava, brava, bravissima."_

Ron went stumbling backwards in shock, his eyes darting around to find the source of the voice, but was amazed to see that no one had entered the room.

"Whose there!" Ron demanded in a shaky voice. "Where are you hiding!"  
"Do not be frightened, child," The voice said, his tone soothing. "I am right here with you—you just cannot see me. I am a ghost."

"A ghost?" Ron echoed, astonished. His eyes moved cautiously around the room again. "Are you good or bad?"

"I would like to think of myself as good," The ghost said, "but very few people seem to think that I am."

"Why?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing.

When the ghost replied his voice was full of a misery that made Ron's heart ache. "I did some very bad things in the past in an effort to win the heart of a woman that I loved above all else."

"Did you get her?" Ron asked breathlessly.

"No," The ghost whispered.

"Oh," Ron said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," The ghost sighed. "It was not your fault." He was silent for a few moments and when he spoke again the sadness was gone from his voice. "You sang very well. Have you had any training?"

Ron blushed under the praise and shook his head. "I just wanted to sing it because it was so pretty," He admitted.

The red that had appeared on his cheeks deepened when the ghost gave a soft laugh that sounded like the sweetest melody.

"It is a very nice song," The ghost said. "Its surprising that you were able to sing it so well without training." There was another paused and then, "Will you be returning here soon?"

Ron's face fell as he remembered how little time he had left in Paris and he hung his head. "No," He said sadly. "I'm only here on vacation. I have to go back to England tomorrow."

"How disappointing," The ghost said. "Your voice was so promising... I wanted to help train it…"

"You did?" Ron gaped.

"Yes," The ghost said. "But its impossible seeing as your returning to England so soon—"

"No!" Ron said. "I want you to teach me!"

"I would not be against it," The ghost said, "but you cannot stay here long enough for me teach you."

Ron crossed his arms, scowling in frustration until a thought occurred to him and he almost started jumping up and down in excitement.

"I can come back when I'm older!" He said.

"Are you sure you won't have forgotten by then?" The ghost asked.

"Of course I won't!" Ron said. "I'll remember you forever and ever!"

Although he couldn't see it, his words made the "ghost" smile.

"Then I shall wait for you to return," The ghost said, "but you must practice your singing everyday until you come back. Understood?" His smile widened at Ron's enthusiastic nod. "Good," He said. "Now I believe we still have some time before your family comes looking for you. Would you like some lessons until then?"

"Yes, please!" Ron said.

"Excellent," The ghost said. "Then let us begin."

When the Weasley family finally found their youngest son a few hours later they were stunned to hear him singing with a voice none of them knew he had had before.


	2. Discovery

The tables of the Great Hall were still laden with all sorts of delicious breakfast foods when Ron sank down into a seat between his best friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

Hermione gave him a stern look as he ladled food onto his plate. "Its nearly ten thirty," She said.

"I spelt in," Ron shrugged. "I don't see what's so bad about it. I mean its _Saturday_."

Hermione rolled her eyes but forwent lecturing him about his sleeping habits for she had something much more important to say.

"Did you see the notice in the common room?"

"No," Ron said. "What's on it?'

"Oh its wonderful!" Hermione beamed. "They're letting all the seventh years' signup for a trip to Paris to stay in the Opera Populaire!"

"The opera what?" Harry asked.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh and opened her mouth to explain, but surprisingly Ron beat her to the punch.

"Its one of the most famous opera houses in the world, constructed around 1861 by Charles Garnier."

"That's right," Hermione blinked "But how did you know that?"

"My Auntie Muriel took our family to Paris when I was six," Ron explained, "and we got to go there."

"Really?" Hermione said, her wide eyes full of admiration. "What was it like?"

"Wonderful," Ron smiled. "I'm definitely signing up."

"Me too!" Hermione said excitedly. "What about you Harry?"

"Well, your since both going there," Harry sighed, "I guess I don't have much of a choice."

"Aw, cheer up, mate," Ron grinned. "You'll like it."

Hermione rambled on about what she had read about the Opera Populaire for the rest of breakfast, but Ron hardly paid attention to her.

His thoughts were too full of memories of a certain ghost…

* * *

Erik sat in box five, a scowl fixed on his face as he watched the rehearsals for the upcoming performance. Firmin and Andre had no right to be in the music business when they had such horrible taste.

Carlotta was starting to sound less like a toad these days and more like a dying cat, and Jacques, the man who had been hired for the role of lead tenor, wasn't much better. The only good thing Erik could find in the man was that his ego wasn't as overblown as Carlotta's was. He doubted that he would be able to handle _two_ divas.

He winced when Carlotta hit yet another atrocious high note in the aria she was currently butchering. He was certain that his ears were going to start bleeding if he had to keep listening to this garbage.

If only Ron was still here.

Erik gripped down tightly on the arms of his seat as the memory of that sweet, cherubic face floated, unbidden, into his mind. The boy had been full of such an innocent happiness—quite like Christine had been at his age.

There were times that he wondered why he hadn't just convinced Ron to stay with him instead of returning to England. He was sure that the boy wouldn't have put up too much of a fuss if the look of pure bliss that he had worn well inspecting the opera house was anything to go by.

The more that Erik would think about it, however, the more he would realize that such a thing never would have worked. He might have been able to entrance Ron with the beauty of the new world he would create for him, but then, just like Christine before him, he would begin to crave the light of the world above.

Erik shook his head with a sigh and focused on Carlotta as she finally reached the end of her song.

He was about to leave his box and return to his lair when overheard the ballet rats chattering bellow his box.

"They're coming here all the way from England?"

In an instant Erik had whirled around, leaning over the edge of the box as far as he could without being seen, desperate to catch every word.

"That's what I heard!" One of the girls said, breathless with excitement. "And they're coming from this school with a really weird name. Hog something or another."

The rest of the dancers all squealed with delight and soon gossip was being exchanged amongst them rapidly.

They had no idea just how much the information that they had discussed had pleased the ghost listening in.


	3. Return

* * *

"I can't believe we're actually here!" Hermione squealed as she looked up at the opera house. She was so excited that Ron half expected her to start jumping up and down.

Ron eyed the building in front of him longingly. He could hardly wait to go inside and find the ghost. He just hoped that he hadn't been forgotten or that the encounter had just been created for his imagination.

As he stared at the opera house, the doors opened and a severe looking woman in her late fifties walked out. She had pulled her graying brown hair up into a tight bun and the stiff black dress that she wore seemed to be devoid of creases.

She gave a stern look to the teenagers chattering animatedly in front of her and then whammed her cane down on the ground twice, making everyone go silent and look at her.

"I am Madame Giry," The woman said. "The ballet mistress here at the opera house. I will be showing you to the ballet dormitories where you shall be staying during your stay here and then you shall audition for the mangers."

"Audition?" Lavender Brown echoed. "Why do we have to audition?"

"To see what your role in the opera house shall be," Madame Giry said, arching her brow at Lavender. "Surely you did not expect to immediately be given a leading role."

Lavender flushed as the people around her giggled and she shook her head without looking at the ballet mistress.

Madame Giry slammed her cane down again to silence them again. "Follow me, please," She said.

She then turned and walked back through the doorway, leaving the rest of them to rush after her.

As they were led through the opera house, they found themselves subject to blatant staring and hushed whispers as the opera house's staff inspected them.

When they reached the ballet dormitories, Harry, Ron, and Hermione quickly choose beds near to each other and placed their suitcases down by their chosen beds before being whisked off with the rest for auditions.

Madame Giry explained to them that she would show them a dance to try and then they would sing a song of their choice for the mangers, Giles Andre and Richard Firmin.

Since their placement in the line went in alphabetical order by last names, Ron was forced to stand at practically the end of the line, watching everyone else run through their auditions.

Hermione wound up doing very well, moving through the instructed dance with a grace that Ron had never known she had, and her voice was actually quite pretty, which combined with her dancing, earned her a spot among the ballet dancers in the chorus.

Harry's was the most surprising audition, though. He did reasonably well on the dance when he wasn't forgetting the steps and tripping over his feet, but his singing was amazing. He had one of the most beautiful voices that Ron had ever heard.

The only problem was that it was a very stunning, _soprano_ voice.

Andre eyes Harry curiously once he had finished singing. "Pardon me," He said, "but are you really a boy?"

"Yes!" Harry snapped, flushing angrily.

Andre's cheeks flushed with color as well. "I'm sorry," He said. "Its just that your voice is very feminine."

Harry's blush deepened and his eyes darted to the stage floor.

"That's not to say that this couldn't work in our advantage," Firmin said.

"What do you mean?" Andre asked.

"Well, it all depends on how Mr. Potter feels about it," Firmin said.

Harry looked up from the floor at the sound of his name. "What are you talking about?" He asked.

Firmin cleared his throat with an awkward look on his face. "We are in need of a new leading soprano," He said, "and if you were to dress up as a girl our search would be over."

Harry's jaw wasn't the only one that dropped.

"But Carlotta—" Andre said.

"Is far past her prime," Firmin said. "And besides," He added on a lower note, "the Phantom has been pestering us about firing her for years. It would do us well to finally get him out of our hair."

Ron frowned at the mention of "the Phantom". Who were they talking about? He must be someone important judging by how solemnly they spoke his name.

"Good point," Andre signed. "This could work out very well.

"Hold on!" Harry said. "I never agreed to do this!"

The mangers' faces crumbled and they turned to Harry imploringly.

"Please take the offer," Andre pleaded. "You will be our leading…er…"

"You will be our reigning diva," Firmin said, coming to the aid of his partner. "Every luxury that you could ever wish for will be yours. Simply ask and it will be yours."

Harry didn't answer them right away and they continued to entreat him until he rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"I know I'm going to regret this," He said, "but if you really need me that badly then fine."

Firmin and Andre nearly sank to the floor in relief at his words.

"Thank you so much," Firmin beamed. "We will have to prepare you right away, of course. Meg?"

A sweet nymph of a woman with golden hair that cascaded won her shoulder and bright brown eyes, hurried over to Firmin from her spot at Madame Giry's side.

"Yes, sir?" She asked.

"Please show Mr. Potter to Carlotta's dressing room," Firmin said. "Then go find her entourage and tell them that they need to transform our new Prima Donna into a woman."

Meg seemed to be fighting back a powerful urge to laugh as she nodded. She gave Harry a kindly look before taking his hand and leading him off the stage.

The auditions continued on quite normally after that with most people being placed into the chorus and ballet.

Finally it was Ron's turn to come nervously onto the stage.

He made a complete wreck of the dancing, forgetting all the steps and nearly falling right on his face, so he was relieved when it was time to move onto the singing.

He choose one of the songs that he was the most comfortable with, a tearjerker of an aria from _Faust_, and when he had finished he found that the chatter he had heard before was gone. Everyone was now staring at him instead with shocked looks on their faces.

Ron shifted around uncertainly and looked down at the ground. "Um…I'm sorry if I was bad…" He muttered.

"_Bad_?" Firmin said. "That was excellent!" He shot up from his seat, clapping wildly, and Andre quickly joined him.

Ron stared at them in bewilderment. "It was?"

"Yes!" Andre beamed. "Your voice is amazing! Whatever teacher you must have had did a wonderful job!"  
"I never had a teacher," Ron said.

The mangers' mouths fell open and astonished whispers began to move amongst the onlookers.

"But a voice like yours has to have been trained," Firmin said.

"No," Ron said. "As I said before: I _never_ had a teacher."

"So that's your…_natural_ voice?" Andre said dumbfounded. Ron nodded. "Good Lord! I can't believe it!"  
"Neither can I," Firmin said. "It seems that fate is being extremely kind to us today. Not only will we be able to get rid of Carlotta but Jacques as well."

"What do you mean?" Andre asked.

Firmin inclined his head towards Ron and realizations dawned on Andre's face. "Your right!" He said. "Mr. Weasley can be our new leading tenor!"

"You want me to be the lead tenor?" Ron echoed, wide eyed.

"If you will agree to it," Firmin said.

"Of course," Ron grinned.

Firmin beamed back at him and seized Ron's hand, shaking it vigorously. "Thank you! You have no idea how grateful we are!"

"I think I can guess," Ron laughed.

Firmin released his hand and waved over a ballet girl instructing her to lead Ron to what was soon to become _his _dressing room.

* * *

A proud smile crept onto Erik's face as he watched the ballet rat lead Ron offstage. Most of the teenagers had displayed mediocre talents at most save for a few rare exceptions, such as that Granger girl, who would no doubt make a fine addition to the ballet, and Potter, who beat out Carlotta not only in voice, but in appearance as well. Erik had little doubt that the boy would become the talk of Paris in no time at all.

He had waited anxiously until he finally heard Ron's name being called, bringing him to his feet in an instant, all of his attention focused on the stage.

The boy who came out from the wings had taken his breath away.

He was tall enough to come close to rivaling Erik in height, but despite his long limbs, he moved with a grace that was normally denied those his age.

The hair that framed his long, thin face was a delightful shade of auburn that almost seemed to shine in the stage lights and those eyes, so like the sky on a clear summer's day, glowed as full lips turned themselves up into a nervous smile. The skin that was left visible to the eye was a sun kissed golden color littered with freckles.

Erik couldn't hold back his laughter when Ron tried to dance. It seemed that although the boy was able to walk with the grace of a swan, he most certainly could not dance like one.

But then Ron had begun to sing and Erik grabbed hold of the tapestries that hung around his box, feeling as if he had just suffered from an electric shock.

The voice was so very close to perfection! The pitch was flawless, there was a near crystal clarity of tone, and no weakness in either register. All that he needed to do was learn how to bring his heart and soul in the power of his voice and it would become as beautiful as Erik knew it could be.

Andre and Firmin wisely made Ron the new leading tenor—_two_ good musical decisions in one day? Perhaps they were improving—and after he left, Erik no longer had any reason to watch the auditions, so he left his box for a certain dressing room.


	4. Meeting

Ron sat at the vanity of his dressing room—he didn't really understand why there was on in a _man's_ dressing room, but oh well—deep in thought about what would be the best way to track down his ghost.

With any luck the ghost had been watching the auditions so he would know that Ron had returned and try to contact him.

Ron let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. Maybe he should try to find Harry's dressing room. It would be interesting to see what he would look like after the entourage was through with him.

He was just about to act on this idea when every lamp in the room was suddenly extinguished, plunging the room into pitch darkness.

"What the hell…" He muttered. He moved to get up to relight the lamps only to find that an arm had wound itself around his waist and was not letting him go anywhere.

He tried to look behind him to see who was there, but a hand grabbed his chin. He struggled against the person's hold, but the grip remained firm.

"Who's there!" Ron demanded.

"Have you forgotten your ghost?"

Ron stopped struggling, his eyes widening. "You're my ghost?" He felt a cold breath in the shell of ear and shuddered.

"Yes," The voice said. "I have missed you very much Ron…"

Ron's chin was released as the hand slid down to his collarbone, dipping into his shirt. He shivered as the fingers caressed his skin. They were long and slim, those fingers, sheathed in black leather that felt wonderful against his skin.

Ron closed his eyes and leaned back against the ghost's shoulder, losing himself in the pleasure of those feather soft touches.

Suddenly the door went flying open on its hinges, causing his eyes to snap open as well. The lamps were blazing once again and the arm around his waist, along with the hand that had been touching him, were gone.

It was as though the whole even had never happened at all.

He shook his head in confusion before turning his attention to the doorway to find a thoroughly distressed Hermione standing there.

He jumped up from the vanity and hurried over to her. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione shot back, looking at him incredulously. "Didn't you hear me pounding on your door?"

"You were pounding on my door?" Ron said. "What for?"

"I would have had to," Hermione huffed, "if you had just answered on the first knock. But you wouldn't answer and then I heard you talking to someone." Her face lost some of its annoyance now. "Who were you talking to?" She looked around the room, her confusion growing when she saw that there was no one there.

"You must be hearing things," Ron said. "There's no one here for me talk to."

Hermione frowned suspiciously at him, but fortunately didn't question him. Another thought dawned on her instead and a huge smile broke out across her face. "Well the reason I came here," She said, "is because 'Harrietta' wants to see you."

"Harrietta?" Ron blinked. He was certain that he didn't know anyone by that name.

Hermione nodded, clasping her hands to her mouth as she broke out into a fit of giggles, confusing Ron even more.

"Shut up, Hermione! It's not funny!"

Ron jumped in surprise at the entrance of the indignant voice and looked behind Hermione to see who else had come into his dressing room, only to have his jaw drop.

A girl was standing there, but she wasn't like any girl Ron had ever seen before. Her hair was a mass of raven curls that fell perfectly around an angelic face and the eyes that glared at Hermione were a breathtaking emerald green. Her full lips had been thoroughly rouged and were twisted down into a scowl.

The gown she wore was a simple white, but it clung to all the right places, showing off a lithe form with soft curves to it.

The girl caught him staring and rolled her eyes with a sigh. "Ron, please stop looking at me like that."

"What?" Ron stammered.

Hermione had gone past giggling now into hysterical laughter and it took her awhile to stop. Once she had finally calmed herself down, she dabbed at her eyes and grinned at Ron.

"Ron, its Harry!" She said.

If Ron thought his jaw had dropped the first time, it fell even lower now, and he looked awestruck at the "girl", making her, or rather him, groan.

"I didn't mean for it to turn out this way!" He said. "But once Carlotta's entourage got hold of me they went crazy!" He paused to frown at Ron. "Didn't I tell you to stop looking at me like that?"

"Sorry," Ron said. "I just didn't expect you to…you know…look like _that_."

"We have to call him 'Harrietta Porter' now," Hermione chuckled, making Harry swat her on the arm.

"I hate this," He whined.

"Count your blessings, mate," Ron said. "At least Malfoy didn't come here."

"I know," Harry said. "I'd never hear the end of it if he saw me like this."

"Well, if it makes you feel better," Ron grinned, "you're one hell of a looker as a girl."

He snickered as Harry flushed crimson, swatting him hard on the arm.


	5. Performance

Needless to say Carlotta did not take the news of her replacement very well. Her high pitched screeches could be heard throughout the whole opera house and she had spat a whole load of venomous curses at Harry—most of them in her native Italian—when she discovered him in her dressing room.

Fortunately, Jacques took the news without any screaming and simply left in an upset huff.

Once the matter of role changes was taken care of rehearsals for the latest performance of _Hannibal_ began immediately.

Hermione quickly became the envy of the other ballet dancers by becoming on of Madame Giry's favorites due to her dedication to learning the steps and the quickness with which she accomplished them.

It became rather awkward at times for Harry and Ron during rehearsals because they occasionally had to act out things that were clearly meant for a man and woman, but eventually realized that they would have no choice but to do it anyway.

The rehearsals were intense, lasting from early in the morning till the time they were able to run through a scene to perfection, which was often late into the night. And the ballet dancers had it even worse for Madame Giry expected nothing less than perfection from them.

The strict schedule left Ron with little time for himself and he hadn't heard from the ghost since that day in his dressing room. But even so, he could still hear his voice praising him or guiding him softly. And it was the same voice that sang him to sleep every night.

* * *

Finally after weeks of hard work, opening night arrived and with it came a horrible surge of nerves.

Ron was sure that the moment he stepped out on the stage he would forget the lines that the maestro, Monsieur Reyer, had drilled into his mind or that he would trip over something and fall flat on his face.

When Meg came to fetch him from his dressing room she spotted his anxiety immediately and took his hands in hers.

"Don't worry so much!" She said. "You'll be fine!"

Ron shook his head and opened his mouth to tell her all the things that could go wrong that night, but a voice at his ear stopped him.

_"Being nervous is a good sign. All great actors are nervous."_

Meg was confused to see a blissful smile appear on what had been an anxious face only moments before and clutched Ron's hands a little tighter. She had thought for an instant that she had heard a voice that she remembered hearing years ago and could only hope that it had been a trick of the mind as she led Ron out of his dressing room.

* * *

As it turned out, Ron had fretted over nothing. His lines flowed forth from his lips with ease and he didn't make a single mistake in his steps.

It was the same for Harry, who played the part of the young, grieving Elisa to perfect without anyone ever guessing that it was truly a boy under the extravagant costume he wore.

Although the audience had originally been disappointed to learn that the infamous La Carlotta ad her companion would not be performing, they quickly fell in love with the new stars and when the performance came to end, they were on their feet, throwing flowers onto the stage well begging for an encore.

When it came time for the final bows, Ron came onto the stage with a beaming smile and bowed to the cheering crowd.

But as he rose from his bow he saw something that jarred him enough to make the smile slip from his face and delay his exit for a few seconds longer than he was suppose to.

Once safely in the wings, he shook his head in disbelief, unable to accept what he had just seen. It was impossible, _impossible_ for that to have been real.

But when he peeked out from behind the wings, his heart fell and he realized that there was no use trying to deny it any longer.

For there in box four was Philippe de Chagny, still standing in the same position as when he had blown Ron a kiss.


	6. Conflict

Philippe slowly lowered himself back down into his seat, unable to bring himself to join the rest of the audience as they received the chorus with thunderous applause. He was still trying to cope with the shock of what he had just discovered.

When he first saw the new leading tenor, he was certain that he had seen him before, but he couldn't remember where he had. He watched the boy rigorously throughout the whole opera, trying to place a name to that stunning face.

And then, as the performance reached its end, he was hit with a powerful strike of comprehension.

It was Ron Weasley down there on the stage, bowing low to the cheering crowds with an enormous smile on his face.

Philippe hardly knew what he was doing as he rose to his feet, but when Ron rose from his bow, he was unable to stop himself from blowing a kiss.

The smile was gone from Ron's face in a heartbeat and he stood there, staring up at Philippe in shock for a few moments, before practically running offstage.

Philippe would have been lying if he said that the reaction hadn't hurt him. He had always imagined meeting Ron under much different circumstances but was nonetheless overjoyed to have found him again and wished that Ron shared the same feelings.

He sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. He longed to be able to see Ron again, to talk with him like he had all those years ago, but he had no idea how to go about it. He wasn't even sure if Ron would want to see him after his rather negative reaction on the stage.

With a groan, he rose from his chair, turning towards the exit of his box. To his surprise, he found the opera house's mangers, standing outside his box.

"Did you enjoy the performance, Monsieur de Chagny?" Firmin asked eagerly.

"I always enjoy your operas, Firmin," Philippe smiled, "but I must admit, your new stars made the performance even more spectacular than usual."

Firmin and Andre glowed under the praise. No doubt this was just the answer they had been hoping for.

"Oh, yes, they are brilliant aren't they?" Andre beamed. "It was an amazing stroke of luck that we found them. I've never seen anything like it before—its simply pure untapped talent."

Philippe dipped his head in agreement, chuckling at Andre's fervor. "They certainly are nothing short of magnificent," He said "I do believe they've won the heart of every Parisian tonight. I only wish that I could be allowed to meet them.

An almost impish smile appeared on Firmin's face. "That could be arranged, Monsieur…"

* * *

Once the performance was over, Ron tried to flee to the sanctuary of his dressing room only to discover that it had been surrounded by swarms of fans. When they spotted him, they all rushed over, shoving flowers and other gifts into his face well showering him with praise one moment and offering him a place in their carriage the next.

He was grateful when Madame Giry appeared at his side, sending the crowds scurrying backwards with her firm words as she led him into his dressing room.

When Ron was safely inside, she shut the door firmly behind her, silencing the cries of his fans.

"Thank you," Ron said.

A small smile appeared on Madame Giry's lips. "You are welcome," She said. She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. "You did very well tonight," She said. "I haven't seen the audience react that way in years." She paused, drawing her hand back from his shoulder to reach into the pocket of her dress, withdrawing a note that had been carefully folded and sealed with a rather eerie skull fashioned out of red wax. "I was not the only one pleased with you tonight," She said, holding the note out to Ron.

Ron took it from her and then glanced up at her, brow furrowed. "Who is this from?" He asked.

"That is for you to discover," Madame Giry said. "I must tell you, however, that you have won over a very important person."

Before Ron could question her any further, she turned on her heel and left the dressing room.

Ron frowned as he looked down at the note in his hands. He couldn't understand Madame Giry's cryptic words at all.

Shaking his head, he tore back the seal on the note and unfolded it so that he could read its contents.

_

* * *

__Ron Weasley, _

_Your performance was a welcome reprieve from the horrendous renditions I have grown accustomed to hearing. You have evidently been endowed with a voice of the most exquisite beauty. I have no doubt that you made the angels weep tonight._

_Sincerely, _

_The Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

Ron had though that his confusion would be lifted after he read the note, but it had only caused it to deepen.

He remembered hearing the ballet girls whispering about an opera ghost every time there was an accident and he heard the mangers saying something about "the Phantom" before, but had never really thought much of it.

And yet here he was, holding a note filled with praise, sent to him by some claiming to be the Phantom of the Opera. He had no idea what to make of it.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts and he placed the note down on the table of his vanity before going to see who was there.

He jumped backwards in shock when Philippe strode into his dressing room escorted by Firmin and Andre.

He knew he should look away as Philippe turned to him, but he couldn't stop himself from staring as he took in the changes in the man he had once known as a boy.

Philippe had grown taller, of course, now only an inch or so taller than Ron, and his lean face had lost most of his boyhood innocence, but he was till just as handsome as Ron had remembered.

His thick, golden waves of hair just brushed against his shoulders and his sweet blue eyes seemed to sparkle as his full lips spread into a wide smile, revealing rows of pearly straight white teeth.

Ron wanted to curse him for being so completely perfect that it made his heart beat rapidly in his chest.

"Ah, allow me to introduce the son of our patron, the Vicomte de Chagny," Firmin said, "Monsieur—"

"Phillipe."

The name slipped past Ron's lips before he could stop it and he hated himself for letting it escape.

Firmin exchanged a surprised look with Andre, but an expression of utmost happiness spread across Philippe's face when Ron spoke his name.

"So, it is you," he said. "Ron."

Butterflies erupted in Ron's stomach when Philippe spoke his name and he bit down hard on his lip, trying to will them away.

"Have you met one another before?" Andre asked, eyes flitting back and forth between the two boys.

"Indeed we have," Philippe said. "But this reunion is a rather personal one so I would appreciate it if we could be left alone."

"Oh, yes, of course," Firmin nodded. "I've been meaning to ask Andre to go over the choices for the next opera with me." He hurriedly bustled out of the room with Andre at his heels, leaving Ron all alone in the room with Philippe.

There was a silence for a few moments and then in three long strides, Philippe was before Ron, gathering him into his arms. "I can't believe I've found you," He said.

Ron raised his arms, meaning to push Philippe away from him, but before he was able to stop himself, he was winding them tightly around Philippe instead. "What are you doing here?" He asked.

Ron could feel Philippe's chuckle as it rumbled up in his chest. "I could ask you the same question. Aren't you suppose to be in England?"

"Yes, but my school decided to sponsor a trip here," Ron explained. He shook the head that was current laying on Philippe's shoulder. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"You didn't think I'd keep the promise I made to you?" Philippe asked.

Ron couldn't stop himself from smiling as he remembered the oath that Philippe had sworn to uphold on their last night together.

_"I will never forget you, Ron. One day, when I'm all grown up, I'll find you again."_

"I didn't really think you would remember it," Ron said. "After all, we were so young and it was just a childhood romance."

Ron was surprised when Philippe pulled back from him, frowning. "Was it really just a childhood romance to you?" He asked,

"Wasn't it to you?" Ron blinked. "I mean, its been_ years_ since we last saw each other. No romance can last for that long."

He watched Philippe's face fall in disappointment and he bit the inside of his cheek guiltily.

Philippe straightened up, his face hardened with a firm sense of conviction. "Well then," He said, "I shall just have to bring your faith in romance back." He took Ron's hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips softly over his knuckles. He looked back at Ron, his eyes blazing with determination as he gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I will never give up on you, Ron, no matter how many years pass."


	7. Captivate

**I am very sorry for the shortness of this chapter, but my inspiration refused to work with me well I was writing and then I found out that I basically got fired from my job for stupid reasons so that basically killed any urge to write.**

* * *

Erik forced himself to govern his anger as he watched Philippe de Chagny take his leave from Ron's dressing room. It was not that he had not expected Ron to have his fair share of lovers over their time apart—the boy was seventeen now, after all, and _far_ from unattractive—but he had never thought that he would have been with the spawn of Raoul de Chagny.

The boy had been proven quite infuriatingly to be the exact double of his father. The only sign of Christine in his disgustingly perfect features were the finely arched cheekbones inherited from her Scandinavian blood and the wide expanse of his full mouth. Besides for that, there was nothing about Philippe that did not suggest that he was nothing more than a miniature of his father.

It even seemed that, like his father before him, Philippe preferred young singers with features that were as lovely as their voices.

Erik was drawn from his ever worsening thoughts, however, by a sudden sigh from Ron, who was staring at the door that Philippe had just left from and shaking his head.

"I can't believe him," He muttered. "It's been _eleven_ years since we saw each other! I never thought that he would be so serious about something that happened when we were only kids. I mean, it's not like we ever took anything serious back then."

Erik could not stop himself from finding a certain relief in Ron's words and the tone of his voice. It seem that the boy found Philippe's declarations of love to be foolish, and if that was true, then there might be a chance to turn him thoroughly away from the young de Chagny before it was too late.

He continued to watch Ron through the mirror, lost in his musings, until Ron turned his back on the mirror and began to undo the costume that he had worn during the performance.

Erik sucked in his breath, knowing that he should look away, but found himself unable to move. There had been plenty of opportunities for him, over his time at the opera house, to watch any number of chorus girls in similar situations through various different means, although he preferred to indulge in such manners. This was a different kind of circumstance, however, for he was not watching Ron out of any form of desire, but more that he was too captivated to look away.

Fortunately perhaps for Erik, Ron moved behind the elaborately designed folding panels that were provided for every important singer to change behind in their dressing rooms.

Erik released a breath that he didn't know he had been holding and took a few steps back from the mirror. He had meant to offer Ron his congratulations on a magnificent opening night for he had not properly talked to the child in far too long, but he now thought that such things could wait until after the other performance the following night.


	8. Arguments and Praise

When Philippe joined his parents for breakfast, he knew that he would face a private interrogation from each of them, although for different reasons.

His mother was the first to begin, casting him an eager smile over the rim of her tea cup. "So, how was the performance?" She asked. "I heard that the new stars exceeded everyone's expectations."

"And there is no need to wonder why!" Philippe beamed. "I have never heard voices such as theirs. It was…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "There are not words to describe it."

Christine let out a laugh, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I take it the performance went well then." She released an almost wistful sigh. "I wish that I could have been there to see it."

"There will be an encore performance tonight," Philippe said. "I was already planning on going to it so perhaps you could—"

"No."

Philippe turned his attention towards his father, whose eyes had narrowed down into one of his steeliest expressions.

Christine took an anxious sip of tea, her eyes shifting from her husband to her son. She knew their temperaments well enough to know that such a rejection would not lead to an agreement and she was right.

"Why won't you allow Mother to come to the opera house?" Philippe demanded. "You must have noticed how much she misses it."

"You shouldn't have to ask for that reason," Raoul retorted. "You know perfectly well why neither your mother nor I will ever step foot in that place again."

"Ah, yes," Philippe said. "I suppose I forgot. You're too afraid of the _Phantom of the Opera_."

The atmosphere at the table instantly became tense.

Christine set her cup back down on the saucer, forcing her hand not to shake under the pressure that she could sense mounting between the two men on the opposite ends of the table.

When Raoul replied, his tone was sharp. "If you had been the one to face him down, you would have become as terrified of him as I am. You have no idea what he is like."

"Oh, I think I can imagine," Philippe said. "All I have to do is combine the gossip from the ballet girls with your accounts." His voice adopted a lightly breathless quality. "Like yellow parchment is his skin. A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew. And if he captures you then you shall never be seen again! There's more if you want to hear—"

His words came to an abrupt end when Raoul brought his fist down on the table so hard that the platters shook, causing the other occupants at the table to jump up slightly in their seats.

"I will not be mocked under my own roof!" Raoul snapped. "And certainly not on a manner as serious as this! I will do whatever is necessary to protect the people I care about, even if it means I must keep my wife from the place she loves in order to protect her from the man that lives in its depths. You should consider yourself fortunate that even allow you near such a dangerous place!"

Philippe hung his head, the courage that he had had earlier replaced by guilt under the force of his father's rage. "I'm sorry, Father," He murmured. "I know that you only take such measures to protect Mother and me."

"I'm glad you understand," Raoul said, his voice much gentler than before. "But still, you saw the performance already last night so I don't see any reason why you should have to attend the one tonight as well."

Philippe's head shot up at this, his eyes wide. "But Father—"

"That is the end of it," Raoul said. "You will keep your mother company tonight well I am off on business."

Philippe narrowed his eyes at his father, but said nothing, returning to his breakfast while his mother gave him a sympathetic look.

* * *

The occupants of the ballet dormitories flocked around Meg as she walked in with a clutch of newspapers in her hand. She ignored the cries of those around her that demanded to know what the reviews said and marched over to the beds where the opera house's latest stars—and their best friend—were awaiting the assessment of their debut.

"How many newspapers did you get?" Hermione asked.

"Only the two most important," Meg replied. "_Le Temps_, since their words are the ones that carry the most weight, and _Le Figaro_, for it has the keenest critics. Which would you like to start with?"

"_Le Temps_ sounds the most important," Harry said. "It's best to get the worst out of the way first."

"Good choice," Meg said. She opened up one of the newspapers with the others gathering around behind her to see what it said. "'The Opera Populaire is an establishment that is infamous for the beauty of its productions, but never before have they delivered a performance such as the one that Monsieur Ron Weasley and Mademoiselle Harrietta Porter gifted us with last night. With voices of such perfection they will soon have all of Paris at their feet.'" Meg lowered the newspaper to reveal an enormous smile. "I told you that it would be great!"

"We're not out of the woods yet," Ron reminded her. "What does the other newspaper say?"

Meg handed _Le Temps _over to Hermione to analyze and unfurled _Le Figaro_. "'The Opera Populaire made a grand return with the performance of Chalumeau's _Hannibal_, but it was their new stars that made the night truly memorable. Never before has this listener heard voices of such a beautiful quality that some audience members were even moved to tears. Messieurs Andre and Firmin have surely made a fine choice in choosing such superb new stars!'" Meg tossed the newspaper down on the bed and rushed forward to embrace the two boys before her. "I knew it!" She cried. "You two a brilliant! _Brilliant_!"

The boys merely laughed, patting her on the back, well the others rushed forward to offer their ecstatic praise.

Ron accepted the congratulations with a gracious smile, but even with such spectacular reviews, he couldn't stop the disappointment that filled his heart for he had yet to hear from the one person whose opinion mattered the most to him.

The knock on the door went unnoticed until one of the ballet girls came rushing over to Ron.

"There's a messenger at the door for you," She announced. "He says its urgent."

Ron frowned, his brow furrowing downwards as he exchanged curious glances with his friends. "I better not keep him waiting then." He pushed up from the bed and cut through the twittering crowds towards the door.

He expected that it was nothing more than a note from the Maestro regarding when he wanted the stars to run through their parts, which was why he was so taken aback when he saw the messenger standing there in the doorway with an enormous bouquet of red roses.

"Here you are, sir!" The boy grinned. "I would have delivered these down to your dressing room with the others, but the sender asked me to bring these to you personally."

"Who are they from?" Ron asked.

"Ah, well there's a card…" The boy handed the flowers over to Ron in order to dig through his pockets for the object in question and by the time that he had handed it over to Ron, there were already half a dozen ballet girls around him.

The card had clearly not been cheap, for it was cut from a stiff material of the deepest black with words that were as red as blood inscribed across it.

* * *

_Your performance excelled all of the expectations that I had for you. There is now no reason for me to doubt that I have chosen the perfect person. I shall come for you once the performance is over to congratulate you in person._

* * *

**Ah, I apologize greatly for the length of this chapter, but my mind just refused to allow me to add anything else and I thought that it would be better to publish what I had of the chapter instead of trying to work on it for an extended amount of time. With any luck the next chapter will be longer and come out sooner.**

**Things to expect in the next chapter: Ron has an encounter with the Vicomtess de Chagny and Meg starts to become supicious of the indenity of his "teacher".**


	9. Surprises

**I am sorry that everyone had to wait so long for this chapter to come out and that its much shorter than I perdicted it would be. Its only this short because I wrote it on a school computer. I plan on having the next chapter be much longer than this one that I promise.**

* * *

Ron was proud to have received such a strong note of praise from his ghost but he should have known that the way that it had been delivered would arise suspicion. The ballet girls, lovers of gossip that they were, were already fueling rumors about the sender of his gift through the opera house. Ron was just grateful that he had managed to hide the card from their prying eyes.

He had arranged the flowers in an elegant vase with a golden hue that had been borrowed from the prop room and placed it on the center of his vanity.

It comforted him to see it there as he prepared for the encore performance that night, even though he was far less nervous than the night prior.

There was a knock on the door and he heard Meg's voice come from the other side of it. "Ron, is it safe for me to come in?"

"Don't worry, Meg," Ron said. "I'm decent." He heard the door open and turned around to give her a smile, but stopped when he saw the anxious look on her face. "What's wrong?" He asked.

Meg opened her mouth to answer but then stopped, her gaze fixed on something over his shoulder. Ron turned his head to see what she was staring at and found that it was the roses on his vanity. He looked back at Meg with a puzzled expression on his face. "Meg?"

Meg shook her head and wandered past Ron, over to the vanity, where she ran her fingers gently over the flowers' petals. "I remember these flowers," She whispered. "He use to send her ones just like these after every performance."

"What are you talking about?" Ron said. He paused for a moment with a frown. "_Who_ are you talking about?"

Meg turned back toward him with a determined set to her features. "Ron, what do you know of Christine Daae?" She asked.

* * *

Christine sat on the settee with her son in the salon, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Raoul had left sometime ago after stressing to Philippe that he was to remain with his mother and not go near the Opera Populaire under any circumstances. He had no way of knowing that his wife had already formulated a plot against his orders.

Christine glanced over at the solemn faced boy at her side. "The performance at the opera house should be starting soon," She said casually.

Philippe gave a hum of assent, his eyes not moving away from the fireplace.

Christine rose from the settee with a rather theatrical sigh. "I suppose we should leave now then," She said. "I doubt that they will allow us in if we arrive late."

Philippe's head whipped towards her so fast that it was little more than a blur. "What do you mean?" He said.

"Your father won't be back until tomorrow afternoon," Christine said. "And I've already found the perfect veil to go with my outfit. That way no one will notice me."

Philippe shot up from the settee and threw his arms around his mother. "Thank you, Mother!" He cried.

Christine laughed and laid a kiss on her son's head. "Your welcome, my son," She said. "Now go get ready. We have an opera to attend!"

* * *

**I'm not quite happy with this chapter, but I hope that you enjoyed it. Also, on a side note, the reason why Christine is wearing a veil to the opera house is because if anyone realized that the infamous Christine Daae had returned to the Opera Populaire it would cause quite the scandal. **


	10. Story

**Wow, this was updated sooner that I expected it to be! I'm not sure when I'll be able to get the next chapter out because my laptop, which has the main version of this story on it, is having some bad problems right now and I'm not sure when it will be fixed.**

* * *

Ron titled his head at Meg in confusion. "I know a little about her," He said. "She was linked to some disaster here, wasn't she? I was pretty young when it happened so I don't remember it very much."

"So, you don't know what lead to the disaster?" Meg asked.

"No," Ron said.

"Then I will tell you," Meg said. She lowered herself down onto the seat before the vanity. "I knew Christine since she was little more than seven years old. My mother brought her here to stay in the ballet dormitories after her father died. He wanted her to become a brilliant singer, one that could bring Paris to its feet. And his dreams were hardly unfounded, for Christine did have an exquisite voice. But for quite sometime after his death, her voice remained utterly empty of inspiration, even though it was absolutely perfect in every other way.

"Then one night, she went down to the Chapel to light a candle for her father, and returned completely enraptured. She claimed to have heard a voice speak to her from above; voice with a beauty like no other. She said that it belonged to an angel."

"An angel?" Ron echoed.

"Yes," Meg said. "You see, before her father died, he promised that once he was in heaven he would send her the Angel of Music to guide her. And she was convinced that the voice she heard had to be the angel that her father had promised her. I had my doubts, of course, but after that night her voice regained the motivation it had once had and grew steadily in power until by the age of seventeen she had the voice of an angel."

"But was it really the work of an angel?" Ron asked.

"No, of course it wasn't," Meg said. "It was nothing more than a man masquerading as one. A man known as the Phantom of the Opera."

Ron stiffened at the sound of that title, remembering the note that had been delivered to him the night before and the solemn expression on Madame Giry's face when she had given it to him. "Who is the Phantom of the Opera?" He asked. "I've heard about before from the mangers and the ballet girls… Why is it that everyone seems to be so afraid of him?"

"The Phantom is the one that really runs this opera house," Meg said. "The mangers use to try to defy him, but ever since the incident with Christine…" She trailed off with a shake of her head. "They cave to nearly every one of his demands. Even the request of a salary of two thousand francs!"

"Two thousand francs?" Ron said. "What does a ghost need with that much money?"

"Oh, but he's not really a ghost at all!" Meg said. "He is nothing more than a man, but he lives down bellow the opera, in a home that he built for himself around the underground lake."

"Down bellow?" Ron frowned. "Why does he live there? Couldn't he have built his home above ground?"

"No, he couldn't have done that," Meg said. "He wears a mask at all times so that no one can see his face."

"A mask?" Ron said. "Why does he wear that?"

The words had hardly left his mouth, however, before all the color drained from Meg's face. "That's not important!" She said hurriedly. "It's his relationship with Christine that is!"  
"What relationship did they have?" Ron asked. "I thought he was just her teacher."

"Oh, that's what he was to her," Meg said, "but it wasn't the same for him. He had come to love her to the point of near obsession and he believed that she could come to feel the same for him. And perhaps she could have if not for the return of her childhood sweetheart, Raoul de Chagny."

"The Vicomte," Ron said.

Meg nodded. "He recognized Christine at her debut in the performance of _Hannibal_. The Phantom had arranged for her to take the role from Carlotta, who had stormed off in one of her usual rages, and she excelled beyond what anyone could have imagined. She became what her father had dreamed for her to be. But her success was to be short lived." She closed her eyes with a sigh. "Raoul began to pursue Christine for her affections and though she denied him at first, she eventually gave in."

"I suppose the Phantom didn't take too kindly to that," Ron murmured.

Meg opened her eyes and shook her head. "Raoul wanted to elope with Christine right away and flee from Paris with her, but she refused. She wanted to perform one last time for her teacher. I believe that she did love him in her own way, it just wasn't in the way that he wanted her to." She gave an almost thoughtful pause before she continued. "But just when she made her entrance, the Phantom arrived on the stage to sing the duet with her!"

"What did she do?" Ron asked.

"She sang with him as if in a trance," Meg said, "until it came to the final part of the song. The she snatched the mask from his face without any warning at all." She gave a slight shudder. "That face…I have never seen anything like it. It gives me chills just to think about it even after all these years."

"What was his face like?" Ron asked.

Meg waved his question away. "It is not my place to say," She said. "The Phantom became furious once he had been unmasked. He grabbed hold of Christine before she could flee from him and disappeared with her through a trapdoor in the stage. My own mother lead Raoul down bellow to rescue her. No one knows quite what happened down there, but Raoul did return with Christine quite some time later. They looked as though they had been through hell and refused to speak of what happened down bellow. All they would say was that there was no need for anyone to go after the Phantom. They claimed that he would no longer bother anyone ever again."

A silence descended upon the room after she spoke as Ron took in all the information that she had given him. However, once he understood all of it, a question rose in his mind.

"Meg…why did you tell me about this?" He asked.

Meg did not answer him right away. She rose from the vanity seat and wandered over to him. She reached out to take his hands in hers and he was surprised by how cold her hands were. "I told you became I am suspicious of this admirer of yours," She said. "His actions seem far too familiar for my liking."

"What do you…" Ron trailed off, his eyes widening. "Oh, no! Its not like that!" He assured her. "It was just a gift from a friend that I made when I first came to Paris as a child."

Meg tightened her grip on his hands. "What kind of friend?" She demanded. "What guise has he appeared to you under? Is he _your_ angel now?"

"No!" Ron snapped. He pulled his hands away from Meg. "He is nothing more than a friend! One that promised to become my teacher."

"Your teacher?" Meg stumbled back from him with her wide eyes full of horror. "That is what he appeared to Christine as! Ron, you cannot trust him!"

Ron opened his mouth to answer him but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Ron!" called Hermione from the other side. "Why aren't you backstage yet? The curtain will be going up in a few minutes! Are you alright?"

Ron gave Meg one last glance before drawing himself up straight and turning to face the door. "I'm fine, Hermione," He said.

"Ron, please, think about what I told you," Meg said. "I don't want you to have to go through what Christine did."

"Its not the same, Meg," Ron murmured. But on the inside, there was a small part of him that wondered if what she said was true.

* * *

**I'm sorry if this chapter had less action than people were hoping for but it seemed to make sense to end it there. The next chapter should have some more action in it.**

**And the reason why Meg didn't tell Ron about Erik's face is because I thought it would make more sense for him to discover it on his own.**


	11. Distraction

**I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out but I had to jump from various different computers to write it and it kept changing itself on me. I'm pleased with the final outcome, though, and I hope you are too. **

* * *

Although he had already been there on the opening night, Erik considered it crucial for him to attend the encore performance. He would have to see if his perspective pupil would be able to maintain the triumph from his first time on the stage. It would not do for Ron to feed off the grand response he received from the audience too much or he could become far too over confident. Erik didn't think he could handle another Carlotta.

He was proud to find, however, that there was nothing for him to fear. Ron conquered the stage for a second time as excellent as he had the first time. His voice rang throughout the opera house with the same superb quality it had before, enchanting the audience all over again.

And yet, Erik couldn't help but notice that there was something off about Ron's acting. It was barely visible but still there in the slight tension of limbs and the subtle darting of eyes.

Something was distracting Ron and Erik was unsure what it was. He was glad to see that it was not affecting the boy's performance, but it still made him wonder what was causing his diversion.

He followed the path of Ron's eyes as they glanced away from the audience again and found himself staring into the de Chagny box.

Philippe was there of course but Erik was surprised to find that his attentions were not as focused on the stage as he expected. It appeared that his focus was instead on his companion in the box, who he kept whispering thing to and gesturing towards Ron with a smile.

The person was obviously a woman from the elegant gown of navy silk that she swore, but the veil of black lace that hung over her face prevented him from learning anything else about her.

He wondered if Philippe had brought her along with the intent of making Ron jealous and glared at her, even though he realized that he couldn't really hold her accountable. Then he realized that if this was what was distracting Ron it would have to mean that the boy still had feelings for the de Chagny brat.

Erik turned his attention back towards the stage and let Ron's voice calm the feelings that were growing inside of him. He didn't want to focus on such thoughts tonight.

* * *

Ron managed to maneuver his way through the crowds that swarmed around the door to his dressing room better than he had before and was inside the safe sanctuary of the room before long.

He collapsed into the chair in front of his vanity without bothering to remove his costume and let his head fall into his hands.

He had tried his best not to think about his conversation with Meg during the performance and had done quite well, but now that he was away from the stage everything that she had told him came crashing down on him all over again.

There was a part of him that refused to believe that Meg could be right about the identity of his teacher. It was not as if he thought that he was being instructed by an "Angel of Music." He knew that his teacher was nothing more than a ghost.

However, he had to admit that the presence he had encountered in his dressing room when he had first arrived at the opera house had been nothing like the ghosts that he knew. And what was it that the ghost had said to him when they had first met?

"_I did some very bad things in the past in an effort to win the heart of a woman that I loved above all else."_

Ron brought his head back up and slapped his hands down on the vanity table, making the various cosmetics there to leap.

No! Meg had just let her paranoia about the past get the better of her and had made a mistake. That was all it was…wasn't it?

Ron was drawn from his troubled thoughts by a knock at the door. He turned towards it with a frown. Harry and Hermione usually waited for him to reunite with them afterwards unless he took too long. If it wasn't his friends then it was probably one of his fans and the thought of having to interact with one of them was far from appealing.

He was about to turn back towards the vanity when the knock came again and this time with more force behind it.

Ron rose from the chair with a groan and headed over to the door. Apparently the person on the other side of it did not want to be ignored. He just hoped that it wasn't an overzealous fan since he doubted that his already strained nerves would be able to withstand that kind of stress.

It turned out that it wasn't a fan that had been knocking, but Ron found that to be a small for relief for the person that was there was almost as bad as one of his admirers.

"Philippe," Ron murmured.

Philippe offered him an enormous smile and dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Ron," He said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you but I have someone here who wanted to meet you." He gestured towards the woman that stood besides him.

Ron examined the figure that hovered by Philippe's side. He could tell that she had to be someone of wealth from the elegant cut of her gown and the fine silk fabric that it was made from. The veil that hung over her face was constructed from pieces of black lace that made it impossible to see the features of the person behind it. All that he could tell was that her hair was the shade of spun gold.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," The woman said. "I just loved your performance so much and then the mangers offered me the chance to meet you." She had a sweet, clear voice like the ring of a little silver bell.

"Don't worry," Ron said. "I don't mind having a conversation with someone. Especially if that person can appreciate the beauty of the music that lives here."

The woman stood up straight at this and Ron could hear the smile in her voice. "Oh, yes!" She exclaimed.

Philippe gave the woman an indulgent smile and Ron chuckled to himself. He stepped back to allow the two of them to come into his dressing room. He made sure to close the door securely after them so that none of the fans that still lurked outside would get the wrong idea and think that they were allowed to enter as well.

However, when he turned back to face his visitors he was stopped dead in his tracks.

The woman had lifted back her veil and the face that had been revealed was one of undeniable beauty. Her face was a perfect oval with skin the color of fresh cream and a small touch of rose to her cheeks. The sapphire toned eyes that stared at him, glittered as the corners of her small, full mouth turned up into a smile.

"I didn't mean to surprise you," She said, "but it was necessary to keep my identity a secret. It would have caused a major scandal if anyone were to know that I had returned to the Opera Populaire. Even if it was just to enjoy a performance." She furrowed her pale eyebrows together and tilted her head to the side. "Do you know who I am?"

"No, Madame," Ron replied. "I don't."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" The woman said. "I thought you knew!" She held her hand out to Ron. "I am the Vicomtesse de Chagny although you may know me better as Christine Daae."

Ron froze at the sound of her name. It didn't seem possible for her to be standing here after he had just heard her whole story from Meg. No wonder she had tried to conceal who she was. He could just imagine the frenzy that would have ensued if people knew that she had returned to the opera house. The reporters would have had a field day.

He forced a smile onto his mouth and shook the hand that was outstretched to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Vicomtesse," He said.

Christine waved her hand at him. "Please, call me Christine," She said. "I've never gotten use to being called by that title." She took a step towards Ron, her eyes bright. "But still, I came here to talk to you about the music. It is so rare to hear voices as fine as Mademoiselle Porter's and yours. You must have had a brilliant instructor."

"Actually, neither of us was ever formally taught," Ron said.

Christine brought her hand up to cover her mouth as it fell open in surprise. "How is that possible?" She asked.

"I'm not sure," Ron shrugged. "The mangers claim that it's a well of untapped talent."

Christine let out a laugh that was like the twinkling of a group of bells. "I suppose that must be it," She said. She looked around the dressing room with a thoughtful smile. "Ah, it feels good to be back in this place. I had almost forgotten what it was like."

"When was the last time you were here?" Ron asked.

"Oh, not since I left after I was married," Christine sighed. "Raoul, my husband, thought it would be a good idea to leave Paris for a little while so we went to stay at his country estate. Then Philippe came along and most of my time went into taking care of him." She turned to her son with a smile and laid a hand on his shoulder.

The gesture made Ron smile. It was obvious that the Vicomtesse adored her son. "Well, I'm glad that you finally had the chance to return," He said.

Christine cast him a warm glance and opened her mouth to say something to him, only to pause, her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder.

Ron turned around to see what had caught her attention and found that Madame Giry was standing in the doorway.

The ballet mistress had a hand pressed to her heart and her wide eyes were fixed upon the Vicomtesse. "Christine," She murmured. "You have returned?"

"Yes," Christine said. "I wanted to have a chance to see the brilliant new stars of the opera house perform. I'm sorry for not informing you that I was coming but…"

Madame Giry raised a hand to silence her. "It's alright, my dear," She said. "I understand perhaps better than anyone the scandal it would cause if anyone were to know you were here." She arched an eyebrow at Christine, her gaze suspicious. "However, I wonder if your husband knows that you are here."

Christine's cheeks flushed with color. "No, he does not," She said. "He is away on business until tomorrow afternoon and I missed this place so much. I just had to return."

"Don't worry, child," Madame Giry said. "I understand how you must have felt. And I am glad that you were able to see our new stars. They are quite magnificent are they not?"

Christine glanced at Ron out of the corner of her eye, a smile on her lips. "Oh, yes," She said. "They are quite superb."

"Thank you, Madame," Ron smiled. "But Madame Giry, why are you here? Do the mangers need me?"

Madame Giry stiffened, her relaxed position disappearing. "No, Ron, that is not why I am here," She said.

"Then what is it?" Ron asked.

"It's not something to be addressed here," Madame Giry said. Ron couldn't help noticing the way that her eyes focused on Philippe and Christine as she spoke.

He wasn't the only person that noticed apparently, for Philippe frowned at the ballet mistress. "I'm sure that whatever it is," He said, "you can discuss it front of us."

Madame Giry shook her head with a sigh. "Very well." She came over to Ron and extended a red rose with a black ribbon wrapped around its stem. "I was told to present this to you after your performance."

"Who is it from?" Ron asked.

Madame Giry brought her eyes over to lock with his. "It is from the person that you will be meeting tonight."

"Do you mean…" Ron trailed off as the ballet mistress nodded and he took the rose from her still stretched out hand. He ran a finger over the ribbon with a faint smile. "Thank you, Madame Giry," He said, "but how did you know—"

Madame Giry stopped his words with a shake of her head. "It isn't wise to discuss that now," She said. "However, I think that it is time for this visit to come to an end."

Philippe stepped forward with a slight frown. "Why should the visit have to end now?" He asked.

"I'm sorry, Philippe," Ron said, "but there is someone else I must meet tonight."

Philippe's frown deepened as his brow furrowed. "Who are you meeting?" He asked.

Ron was confused by the bitter tint that he could hear in those words. Philippe couldn't be jealous that he was meeting with someone else, could he? He sunk his teeth into his lip as his heart began to beat rapidly in his chest. What was it about Philippe that caused such a strange reaction in him?

"Its nothing for you to be concerned about," Ron said. "It's just an old friend that I haven't seen since the first time I came here."

"Very well then," Philippe said. "I suppose we will have to meet at another time."

"That sounds like a nice idea," Christine said. "I would like to get to know you better Ron." Her gaze lingered on the rose that Ron held in his hand before rising to his face.

"I would like that, Madame," Ron said.

Christine gave him an enormous smile but there seemed to be a hint of tension in it. "I will see you soon then," She said. She lowered her veil back over her face and walked over to the door.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Ron," Philippe said. He took Ron's hand and brought it to his mouth so that he could lay a kiss on it.

Ron felt the heat rush up into his face and tried to control the fluttering that had erupted in his stomach. How could Philippe do something like this in front of his mother! He glanced over at the Vicomtesse and was relieved to see that she her attention wasn't on them.

"Will you be here for my next performance?" Ron asked.

"Of course," Philippe said. "I would never miss an opportunity to hear you sing." He gave Ron's hand a final squeeze and then walked over to his mother to lead her out of the dressing room.

"I will leave so that you can change," Madame Giry said.

"Oh, thank you," Ron said. He had nearly forgotten that he still had to change out of his costume. He was about to head over to the elegant folding panels to change when the mistress spoke again.

"You should stay away from Philippe de Chagny."

Ron whipped his head around to stare at her in bewilderment. "What?" He said.

Madame Giry shook her head with a sigh. "_He _will not approve," She murmured. She slipped out of the dressing room, leaving Ron to stare at the door and wonder what her words had meant.

* * *

Philippe wouldn't stop discussing the performance as the carriage brought them back to their home. Christine found it endearing that most of what he had to say related back to Ron Weasley. A person would surely have to be blind to not notice the attraction that lay between the two of them.

However, Christine was far too lost in thought to contribute to the conversation. Her mind kept replaying the image of that rose that had been delivered to Ron and remembering when she had received one just like it.

She only hoped that the person who had sent Ron that rose wasn't the same person who had sent her one.

* * *

**In the next chapter Ron is going to finally discover the true idenity of his "ghost". **


	12. Truth

**It is finally here, the chapter that contains the scene that everyone has been waiting for: the meeting of Ron and Erik! A huge thanks to everyone who reviewed and for those that waited patiently for me to update. And look the chapter's longer this time!**

* * *

Meg had been raised within the walls of the opera house, spending nearly every moment of her childhood exploring the seemingly endless expense of the building. There were few who could claim to know their way around the opera house better than she did.

She relied on this knowledge as she dashed through the little known back corridors that would lead her to the hall that contained the dressing rooms of the principal singers. She was desperate to reach Ron before the fans began to swarm around outside of his dressing room.

Ron had sharply rejected her warnings about the identity of his teacher, but she had seen the flicker of disbelief in his eyes before he left. She hoped that this meant that he was at least considering what she had said to him, for that would mean she might be able to convince him not to have any further contact his teacher. It was a chance that hadn't been there before when she hadn't been able to realize how far the innocent mind of her best friend had been twisted by her "angel" until her was too late.

She refused to stand by and allow the Phantom to take advantage of another innocent person.

She let out a sigh of relief as she saw the light glittering at the end of the corridor. She would arrive before Ron's dressing room soon and would be able to stop him before he went to see his teacher.

She had hardly even taken another step, however, when the sound of a voice made her freeze.

"_And just what do you think you're doing, little Giry?"_

There was nothing that could have stopped Meg from recognizing that voice. A great many years had passed since she had heard it, but she knew that no matter how much time passed, she would never be able to forget that voice. It still possessed that near heart wrenching beauty and it seemed to play within her mind instead of at her ear.

The Phantom was here.

Her hands scrambled upwards to grasp at the fabric of her bodice, under which she could feel her heart beating rapidly. She had to force her voice not to tremble when she spoke. "I won't let you get away with it."

"Get away with what, exactly?"

Meg couldn't stop herself from starting slightly, although she berated herself for it moments after. The voice sounded closer to her than it had been before.

All of her senses were screaming at her to run, but she refused to give in to them. She had to stand her ground—for Ron's sake.

A fresh swell of courage rushed through her as she thought of Ron, who was no doubt waiting in his dressing room for his "teacher", not knowing how he was being deceived. She raised her body up to its full height and jutted her chin out boldly as she scowled into the darkness that surrounded her. "Stay away from Ron!" She snapped.

When there was no response, she thought for a moment that she had actually managed to chase him off, and she dared to take another step forward. But then she felt the cool rush of breath against the back of her neck and her blood turned to ice within her veins.

"You dare try to order _me_?"

Meg whirled around, her eyes fixated on the figure that loomed behind her. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream when she saw the black mask and the amber eyes that seemed to burn like tiny flames in the darkness.

She tried to force her feet to move, knowing that if she ran fast enough she might have a chance to make it out of the corridor, but it was too late.

A swift hand darted out from seemingly nowhere, forcing a cloth over her mouth that reeked of laudanum. She struggled against his hold but her efforts were futile for his hold on her was too strong.

Her last thoughts before she succumbed to the drug, her eyes rolling back into her head, were of Ron.

* * *

Ron stepped out from behind the folding panels still thinking about the parting words of Madame Giry. He was certain that the "he" that she had referred to was his teacher, but he couldn't imagine why his ghost would disapprove of his relationship with Philippe. They were just friends, after all, and would remain nothing more than that if Ron could help it. Did he have something against the de Chagny family?

That thought made him pause as another began to enter his mind. Raoul de Chagny was Philippe's father and the man that had stolen Christine Daae away from her other suitor…the Phantom of the Opera.

_Could his teacher really be…_

His line of thought ended there as every lamp in his room went out, throwing his dressing room into darkness.

Ron found himself unable to suppress the shiver of anticipation that passed through him, for he remembered what had happened the last time this had happened.

"_Ron…"_

His body seemed to move of its own accord, turning to face the large, elaborately designed mirror that hung on the far wall. His eyes went wide when he saw that there was a man standing there on the other side of the glass. "Who are you?" He demanded.

The man extended his hand out to Ron, who watched in astonishment as it appeared to pass straight through the glass.

"_I am your ghost. It is time for you to come with me."_

Ron shook his head, although his eyes never left the figure in the mirror. "This…this…can't be real," he murmured.

He could have sworn that the man smiled at him.

"_Why can it not be real?"_

Ron didn't realize that his feet were moving until he found himself standing before the mirror, his hand reaching out tentatively to grasp the one that was outstretched to him.

"You are my ghost."

The hand curled around his own, holding it so lightly that he knew that he could pull away if he wished it but that was the last thing on his mind. He wound his fingers around the other hand, knowing that he had made the right decision when he saw the pleasure in those eyes that remained fixed on him.

It was strange how pleasing this man seemed so important to him now.

The man tugged on his hand, guiding him forward, and he realized, in amazement, that he was moving straight through the glass into the corridor that lay beyond it. It was a simple stone passageway with troches setup along the walls to light the way.

Ron felt his head fall back against the large shoulder behind him and then, before he could even realize what he was doing, he was asleep.

* * *

Erik glanced down at the boy that was slumbering within the gondola as he maneuvered it through the lagoon. He wasn't sure what had lead him to do something so reckless. Perhaps it was because of the words that Meg Giry had said to him.

His hand tightened around the oar as he recalled her words. The girl had been far too bold by trying to give him commands, especially ones that concerned Ron. Did she really think that he would give up his claim on the boy just because she told him to? He had become too involved with Ron for him to give the boy up now, for it would only wind up hurting them both if he were to abandon the child.

Meg was fortunate that he held her mother in such regards, or else she might have suffered worse than a drugged induced sleep for daring to invoke the opera ghost's rage.

He was stirred from his thoughts by a slight sound from Ron. He wondered for a moment if the boy had awoken, but saw that this was not the cast as he continued to sleep on, which he considered to be a blessing.

He had been quite surprised when Ron had passed out in his arms, but then he realized that he should have expected such a thing. After all, Christine had hardly made it through halfway down the corridor before crumpling down at his feet.

His voice seemed to have that sort of affect on people when he used it them to his full advantage. They would remain full of energy while they remained in the trance, but once his voice disappeared, it would take with it any power that they might have had.

He was certain that Ron would awake a few hours later fully revived. He just hoped that the boy wouldn't be upset when he realized what had happened.

* * *

When Ron awoke, it was to the sound of music. He thought that it was coming from a piano, at first, but then he realized that the sound was far too deep for that.

It wasn't until he sat up that he became conscious of where he was. Someone had placed him within a bed, tucking him in soundly under the blankets that slid off his body as he rose. The sheer golden curtains that surrounded the bed did little to block out the world around it and he could see a pipe organ through them—so _that_ was what was making the sound.

When he saw who sat at the organ, he gave a slight start, scuttling back in the bed.

It was the man who had lead him through the mirror…but how could he have been able to do that? Ron brought his hands to his head, gripping at it as confusion rushed through his mind. He could remember what had happened, but it seemed more like a dream than something that had actually happened.

He barely registered that the music had stopped but he was able to sense the presence that had come near to him.

His head snapped up to look at the man who regarded him calmly through the eyeholes of his dark mask.

His _mask_.

"You're the Phantom of the Opera."

He hadn't meant to voice his realization out loud, but perhaps it was better that he did.

The man let out a deep sigh before reaching out to move the curtains aside so that they could look at one another properly. "Yes, I am," He murmured.

A dozen thoughts shot out through Ron's mind all at once, but only one managed to escape from his mouth. "You lied to me."

He felt a rush of guilt wash over him as his words caused the Phantom to turn away from him in the smallest of flinches.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

The Phantom held up a hand to silence him, already shaking his head. "No," He said. "You have every right to be upset with me for that. But you should know that I never did it with any ill meaning."

"Then why did you do it?" Ron asked.

The Phantom rolled his shoulders in a shrug that would have appeared effortless if Ron hadn't managed to catch the faint tension in his frame. "What else was I suppose to tell a little boy?" He said. "I half expected you to run off at the mention of a ghost."

"Is that what you wanted?" Ron asked.

He was surprised by the way the Phantom's expressions seemed to soften, even behind the mask. "No," He said. "That was the last thing I have wanted ever since I heard your voice."

Ron dipped his head down, unable to bear the tender expression in the Phantom's eyes. It made his heart pound stronger than it ever had with Philippe. "My voice isn't that good," He muttered.

"Well, I am glad that you have not allowed your praise to go to your head," The Phantom said, "I think you should give yourself more credit. I never expected your voice to reach the levels it has by now, even if you were practicing every day like I told you to."

Ron couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up into a small, pleased smile. He made sure to find time to practice his singing every day. It had grown harder as he grew older, what with the added parts of school lessons and shared dormitories with boys that he certainly did _not_ want to hear him sing, but he had made sure to do it. There had been times when he had almost been convinced not to bother with his practice, but then he would think of his ghost being disappointed with him. That alone was motivation enough for him to practice, no matter how exhausted he was.

"I worked hard to improve my voice," He said.

"I can tell," The Phantom said, "and I am thankful for it. I am sorry to tell you, however, that there is still work to be done."

Ron looked towards the Phantom, his brow furrowed. "There is?" He said.

The Phantom chuckled at the determination he saw in that young face. "There always is more work to be done," He said. "Right now, your voice is very near to perfection. Your pitch never wavers, a near flawless clarity of tone, and there is hardly any weakness on either register. You just need to learn how to hone your instrument a bit more and bring your heart and soul into the words that you sing, and then you will be ready. I thought that we could start our lessons today, if you are ready for them that is."

"I want to start today," Ron said.

"Then that is what we shall do," The Phantom said, "but first you are in need of some refreshment." He moved to step away from the bed but Ron scrambled forward.

"Wait!"

The Phantom turned back towards him with a curious expression on his face. "Yes?" He said.

"Do you have a name?" Ron asked.

It had been quite some time since had been asked that question. "My name is Erik," The Phantom replied.

Ron nodded, rolling the name over in his mind. It seemed to suit the mysterious man before him quite well. "Thank you for telling me," He said.

"You are welcome," Erik said. "Now, about your refreshment, will tea suffice?"

"Tea would be perfect, thank you," Ron said.

It wasn't until Erik had walked away that Ron realized that they had never discussed the mask.

* * *

**I hope that no one with angry with Meg, or maybe even Erik for knocking her out like that. I promise that Meg is perfectly alright, though, and will be featured in the next chapter.**

**The question of the mask will come up eventually of course. What kind of Phantom story would this be if didn't-laughs-?**


	13. Break

**Here's the next chapter! Thank you again for being so patient with me. It is very much appericated! **

**I hope you enjoy this!**

* * *

Ron couldn't be sure of how much time had passed since had awoken in Erik's underground lair. It was near to impossible to mark the passing of days in a place without windows, after all. He could only hope that he hadn't been away long enough for his absence to arouse suspicion because the last thing he wanted to do was to start a panic.

It was hard to focus on such things for very long, however, for Erik domineered nearly every second of his time.

The man was determined to improve Ron's voice. He was a demanding teacher, never accepting anything less than complete perfection before he would allow his pupil to move on to the next piece. Ron might have become irritated with the lessons if he wasn't so determined to conquer over each new challenge Erik threw at him. And the way that Erik would look at him whenever his voice managed to soar into the realm of perfection, made it all worth it. It was a look of absolute pleasure with an affection in it that never failed to make Ron's heart leap.

He felt proud that Erik had chosen to teach him, for he was far superior to any of the other voice coaches employed at the opera house. His voice seemed to progress in some new way with each lesson, having already passed through what he once believed to be the limit of what he could accomplish.

However, despite how much he treasured the lessons, what came after them was something he cherished even more, for it was then that Erik would open up to him.

They would settle down together in what Ron had begun to refer to as the study, each with a cup of their own tea. It would remain quiet for some time, each of them reflecting on their own thoughts as they sipped at their tea, but then Erik would start to talk.

It began as legends that he had heard from around the world until Ron began to question how he had collected such tales.

Then came the stories of traveling across the world and things that had occurred in each place. He had seen the wonders of Rome, preformed as a magician in Russia, and even encountered the shah, the ruler of Persia.

Erik seemed to reveal a new part of himself during every conversation and it didn't take long for Ron to string each piece together to form a relative idea of what the man's life had been.

He never talked very much about his childhood, but from what Ron could gather, it had been far from pleasant. His father was an architect that had died before he was born and his mother could never seem to decide whether she loved or hated him.

His life away from home appeared to have been better, but even that seemed marred by something, and although Ron couldn't be sure, he suspected that it had something to do with the mask.

The mask was something that was never really mention throughout their time together. He wouldn't try to deny that he was curious about why it was worn, but he could never work up the courage to ask about it. He had a feeling that the peacefulness that had been laid between them would be ruined if he were to bring it up.

So he contented himself with the world that Erik had crafted for him from music and stories, trying his best to resist the urge to find out what just lay beyond the mask.

* * *

After the production of _Hannibal_, the opera house allowed its workers to take a short break for two weeks. It was expected for them to use this time to familiarize themselves with the score of their next performance, _Otello_, but many of the Hogwarts students were using the break as an excuse to explore Paris.

The only students who were actually focusing on their work were Harry and Hermione.

Harry stated that it was his job as the "reigning diva" of the opera house, a title he used grudgingly, to be prepared for the next performance. He was certain that Monsieur Reyer wouldn't forgive him if he arrived at rehearsals without any idea of what was in the opera score.

Hermione had always been the type of person to dedicate herself to something that she valued important so nobody was really surprised by her continued practice. She would head off to the opera house each morning to run over what would be expected of the ballet troop in _Otello_ with Madame Giry. The ballet mistress always shooed her off after lunch, however, insisting that she visit the sites around Paris.

Whenever people attempted to drag them away from their work, the two would wave them off, insisting that if Ron was off improving himself then they should follow his example.

That had come as a surprise to most people that Ron of all people was working during his break. He had disappeared after the encore performance of _Hannibal_, worrying everyone until Madame Giry arrived with a note for the mangers that stated that Ron had decided to inspect some of the other theatres around Paris and work on improving his voice. The sender of the note claimed that he would be providing Ron with a place to stay during his break from the opera house. He swore that Ron would be provided with the best of care and would return to the opera house when the two weeks came to an end.

Everyone accepted this easily, never wondering why Ron had never mentioned his plans to leave, not even to his best friends, and disappeared without a word.

All of it left Meg infuriated. She knew better than to think that Ron was off somewhere in the city, residing safely in the house of some kindly benefactor. Not when she had awoken in her own bed with her head spinning and the words of the Phantom still ringing in her ears. She had failed in her efforts—the Phantom had taken Ron.

She wanted to reveal the truth of what happened or even brave the dangers that lurked bellow the opera house in order to recover the boy, but her mother forbid it.

Madame Giry was the closest thing to a friend that the Phantom had and understood him in ways that others could not. She knew that it would be suicide for Meg to try to stand against the Phantom. Particularly with the note that had been slipped under her door after Meg had been returned to her, claiming that what had been done to her daughter was just a warning and that she should be careful not to interfere with the plans of the Opera Ghost again.

So, for now all that Meg could do was treed carefully throughout the opera, always feeling as if the eyes of the Phantom were upon her.

* * *

**Will Ron be able to resist the temptation? Of course not or else this story would never go anywhere-laughs-! The un-masking scene is on the horizon, my readers!**


	14. Confrontations

**Its time for the un-masking in this chapter! **

**Hannah Brandon 1234321: I know I told you that Erik wouldn't be flying into a rage this time, but he went off on his own-laughs-. It all works out in the end.**

* * *

Erik was content—there was no other word for it. There was a part of him that wondered if he had even felt like this when Christine was still a part of his world. He had considered that to be the "golden era" of his life, surrounded by the warmth of Christine's presence, the beauty of her voice filling up every corner of his dim world with light. But Ron seemed to sweep away the memories of that time. He was like some sort of flame, burning through the barriers that Erik had erected.

Ron proved to be a dedicated student. There were times when he would seem even more determined than Erik to improve himself. The determination with which he threw himself into the music was truly endearing.

It didn't long for Erik to realize that it was hard to keep Ron from his side even without the lure of lessons. The boy appeared to gravitate to his side as if it were natural. It didn't matter if there wasn't any interaction between the two of them. Ron would curl up in a chair, pouring over a book that he had grabbed from one of the many shelves, as Erik worked on preparing their dinner.

Once the meal was done, Erik would fix some tea, sprinkling herbs known to help the voice into the one intended for Ron. He had intended for it to be nothing more than a quiet moment—something to give them a sort of break from each other—but then Ron began to bring up the stories that he had read in the various books throughout the lair, which had prompted Erik to reveal the assorted legends that he knew.

He should have known that this would have aroused Ron's curiosity. Soon enough he was questioned as to how he had come across such tales and he was unable to stop himself from spilling out the truth. Some parts of the story had to be adapted in order to protect Ron from what lay beneath the mask, but otherwise things moved smoothly.

Ron would always struggle to stay awake, not wanting the time they spent to come to an end, but it was a battle that he would always have to lose. He would doze off eventually, teacup dangling precariously from his hand, and Erik would gather him up, carrying him off to his room.

The only thing that marred their happy existence was the way that Ron's eyes had begun to linger upon the mask. Erik knew that he would have to reveal the truth at some point, but it was a far from appealing prospect. He had already seen the horror that entered the eyes of every person allowed to remove his mask—he didn't think he had the strength to see the same look reflected in Ron's, as well.

* * *

Ron lay on his bed, staring up at the canopy that hung over his head, lost in his own thoughts. There hadn't been any lessons today since Erik had business to attend to in the opera house. He had instructed Ron to practice the latest piece that they had been working on while he was away, but he only ran through it a few times before other thoughts overwhelmed him.

It was becoming harder to resist his curiosity about the mask. It swelled up inside of him every time he looked at it, nearly overpowering him. He couldn't understand why Erik insisted on wearing the mask. The man never offered up any reason for it. The subject of it was never brought up and Erik never seemed to remove it.

It bothered Ron that he had been with Erik for such a long amount of time, but still had no idea what he looked like. All that could be known was that Erik had thick black hair and eyes like the heart of a flame, but that wasn't enough for Ron. He wanted to know the face that lay behind the mask. There were times when his fingers would almost seem to itch with the desire to remove it.

It felt as though the mask was some sort of barrier between the two of them, separating him in some way from Erik, and that wasn't a pleasant feeling.

Ron pushed off the bed with a frustrated groan. It was no use dwelling on things that he couldn't do anything about. His time would be better spent on practicing the piece that Erik had left him, for he certainly wouldn't be pleased if he returned to discover that Ron hadn't made any progress with it.

He headed off towards the organ where he had left the piece draped across the keys only to pause as he passed a door to place that he had never entered before.

_Erik's room. _

Like the issue of the mask, it seemed to be an unspoken rule that Ron wasn't allowed to enter that place. The door was normally shut tight, only able to be opened with one of the many keys that resided on the large iron ring that Erik always carried around with him. However, this time the door had been left hanging open.

Ron knew that he should just close the door and move on, but it seemed that he had enough with resisting curiosity, for his body disagreed with him. His feet moved forward as if of their own will until he was standing in the doorway, looking in the room.

The place came as a complete shock. Despite the strange manner in which Erik lived, he had kept every aspect of his home in a docile manner, each room filled with the typical furniture that could be found in the rooms above him. But this room was drastically different from any of the other rooms in the lair.

The walls were covered in a constant stream of music notes that Erik must have written down in moments of inspiration to be translated properly out onto to paper at a later time. There was a wardrobe and dresser pressed against a wall, both made of finely polished wood. A writing desk had been placed in the corner, its surface littered with sheets of music.

But the most appalling thing of all was the bed, although Ron wasn't sure that he could refer to it by that title. It was a _coffin_ set on a raised platform in the center of the room with a small set of stairs leading up to it.

Ron shook his head, about to back away from the room, when something caught his eye—a mask.

It wasn't like the one of black porcelain that Erik wore now. This one looked as though it had been hand stitched from a fine white fabric and it seemed better suited to fit the face of a young child then an adult.

Ron sensed the presence too late, his blood turning to ice in his veins, as a familiar voice echoed through the lair.

"What are you doing?"

Ron whirled around to see Erik, standing on the edge of the lagoon near the gondola, eyes narrowed into silts.

"I'm sorry," Ron stammered. He had never seen Erik like this before; the man seemed to radiate with anger. "It's just…the door was open and…I wanted to…"

"I know what you wanted to do," Erik spat. "How dare you sneak around where you don't belong!" He began to stalk towards the place where Ron stood rooted to the spot, eyes never moving away from him. "I suppose you couldn't stand the fact that I insisted on keeping something secret from you. What I already given to you—more than I have ever given anyone else, I assure you!—wasn't enough for you. You wanted to have everything, even if you had no right to it. You selfish little boy!"

Ron had remained silent before, frozen with fear in the face of such a rage, but now he bristled, his own considerable temper boiling over.

"I'm not the one being selfish here," He hissed, "_you_ are."

When Erik responded it was through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what I—"

"Oh, shut up!" Ron snapped. He glared down at Erik, who did nothing in response, taken aback by the outburst. "Aren't I allowed to speak for myself? I suppose the other people you know just let you run right over them when you get like this, but not me! I'm not going to stand by like some naïve little girl, trembling in the face of your rage! I am _not_ Christine!"

The last statement seemed to strike Erik particularly hard, making Ron regret mentioning Christine for a moment, before realizing that she had never been brought before, yet another silent rule, which only fueled his anger.

"I won't deny that you've given me a great deal, but you can't give me one of the most important things of all—_your trust_. You guard everything around you like a selfish child, refusing to allow anyone close enough to discover who you truly are. You always keep me at a distance no matter how well you treat me. I am not some sort of kept pet for your amusement, Erik. Everything has to go two ways. If you want me to obey you then you should show that you respect me."

Erik wasn't able to respond for a few moments and Ron remained silent, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

"I do respect you," He murmured.

Ron responded with an incredulous snort. "Really?" He gestured towards Erik's room. "Is that why you flew into a rage when you found me here?"

"May I remind you that you had no right to be there?" Erik snapped.

"Certainly," Ron replied, "if I am allowed to point out that it's a stupid rule."

"It is not—"

"Yes, it is," Ron said. "What were you trying to hide by not allowing me in? Some unfinished compositions? The fact that you sleep in a coffin? The last is definitely something unusual but I would have become use to it. You should have been able to trust me, Erik."

"Trust is not an easy thing for me to give," Erik said. "Every person that I have ever bestowed it upon before has betrayed it in the end."

Ron was unable to stop the words for leaving his mouth. "It's because of the mask isn't it?"

Erik turned away from him with a barely perceptible flinch. "Yes," He murmured.

Ron had to gather up every inch of his courage, forcing each word out. "Why do you wear the mask?"

Erik snapped his head back towards him so fast that it seemed almost a blur. "That is not for you to know," He said.

"Erik, please…" Ron murmured.

"No," Erik said, tone firm. "We will speak no more of this. Now go practice your piece."

Then he disappeared into his room, slamming the door shut after him.

* * *

Erik sunk down into the chair that stood before his writing desk with a sigh. The argument had left him completely drained. No one had ever stood against him in such a way. Not even Madame Giry would have dared to be so blunt with him.

Ron had accused him of being as selfish as a child hoarding over his toys, but he couldn't understand why Erik had to be that way. He wouldn't have any problem with revealing everything to Ron if he didn't know how horribly the boy would react to it. No one had ever been able to face the horror of his face without turning away in disgust and he was sure that Ron, for all his brave words, wouldn't be able to stand it either. He might not be another Christine—_that_ much was certain—but there could be no doubt that he would look upon Erik's face with the same terror that she had.

Erik gave a start at the sound of the door opening and his eyes flew up to find Ron standing there with a determined look on his face. He was barely able to form a question in his mind before the boy spoke.

"I want you take me back."

This had been the last thing that Erik had expected to hear and it took him a little while to recover enough to compose a reply. "What?"

"I want to go back above," Ron said. He spoke slower this time as though he considered Erik to be a fool for not understanding him the first time. "I think it's clear that I shouldn't be here, at least for right now." When Erik didn't respond quickly enough he frowned. "If you don't agree to help me then I'll find my way back on my own."

Erik thought of all the traps he had placed throughout the way to his lair that were impossible for anyone to cross but him. "You can't do that," He said. "It isn't safe for you to go alone."

"I think I'll be able to manage," Ron said. He stared at Erik for a moment, waiting for him to respond. "Fine then, I guess I'll figure it out on my own."

"Don't." Erik sighed, his face falling down into his hands. "Why are you doing this to me?" He murmured.

"You're the one that started it," Ron said. "All I want to know is why you insist on hiding from me."

"I have to," Erik said. "If you didn't you would flee from me."

Ron let out a short, humorless laugh. "Isn't that what I'm doing right now?" He asked.

"Stop it!" Erik roared. He slammed a fist down on the table behind him with enough force to make it shake, some of the musical sheets on it falling to the ground. "Just stop it! God damn you!"

There was a long period of silence in which neither of them dared to say anything.

"Is it really so bad?" Ron asked finally, voice soft.

"Yes, it is," Erik said. "None of those who have seen my face have ever stayed. Some of them have lasted longer than others, but in the end the disgust is just too much."

"I think you will find that I am not like them," Ron whispered.

Erik could hear the pad of his footsteps as he came closer until he was standing before him. He didn't turn away as Ron reached out his hands. He let his eyes slide shut as Ron slipped his fingers under the mask, removing it with great care.

"Oh, Erik…"

* * *

Ron now knew why Erik had tried to keep his face hidden. The flesh of his face was completely sunken in, the expanse of it riddled with numerous thin blue veins. There was a large hole where the nose should have been, making it seem eerily like a skull.

However, despite what lay before him, Ron felt no trace of fear. Everything was falling into place now: the treatment inflicted upon Erik by his mother, the abuse he must have faced wherever he went, and his refusal to allow anyone to get too close to him.

Ron could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and made no effort to wipe them away, allowing them to roll down his cheeks. He brushed his fingers across one of the shallow cheeks, pain shooting through his heart when he felt Erik shudder beneath his touch.

He leaned in close to Erik, pressing his mouth firmly against the other cheek, trying to convey to the man that he had nothing to fear.


	15. Understanding

**Thank you all for the reviews/favorites/alerts! This chapter is shorter than I wanted it to be, but I'm working on limited time and wanted to leave you with something after the long wait. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

The kiss was the last thing that Erik had expected, not with the memory of Christine's reaction to his face seared into his mind. She had scrambled away from him, practically falling over in her haste, his mask still clutched in her hand. She trembled with the force of a leaf caught in a gale and her face was bleached of all color.

But it was the way that she looked at him through her wide, tear filled eyes that had been his undoing. She regarded him with such terror, as though he were some sort of wild creature that could attack her at any moment.

It was for this reason that Erik refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to watch as any of the affection Ron had for him was replaced with disgust. He wanted to bask in the warmth of this moment, in the wonderful sensations that the kiss brought him.

He shivered as fingers brushed across his eyelids. He could hear Ron talking to him again, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

"Look at me, Erik."

There was a part of Erik that still wanted to refuse, but that soft plea was impossible for him to ignore. He opened his eyes slowly, wanting to delay the moment for as long as he could. Then he was staring into those familiar eyes, astonished at what he discovered within them.

Not a sliver of fear could be found. There was a trace of that inevitable pity but, despite for that, they were full of such tenderness, as though the affection that Ron had felt for Erik before had only been magnified. But such a thing couldn't be possible. This was something that had never occurred, not even in his dreams.

He let his eyes slide shut for a few moments, willing the illusion away, but when he opened his eyes again it was still there before him.

His senses were so numbed by shock that he was hardly able to feel the hands that clasped his face.

"Erik?" Ron sounded worried now. "Are you alright?"

"You're not afraid," Erik murmured. "Why aren't you afraid?"

"I'm not really sure to be honest," Ron said. He paused for a moment, brow furrowing downwards, as though in contemplation. "Maybe it's because…I've seen something worse."

"Worse?" Erik let out a harsh burst of laughter that was devoid of any humor. "What could be worse than this?" He gestured towards his face with a sharp wave of his hand.

Ron let his hands slide away from Erik's face with a soft sigh. His eyes took on a far-off quality as he spoke next. "I once knew a man who was given every chance to excel. He came from nothing but was able to achieve so much through his intelligence and sheer force of will. The fact that he was handsome, as well as charming, didn't hurt either, of course.

"But he was never content, no matter how much he gained. It was never enough to give him what he really wanted—to be the most powerful, the most respected. Someone who would never have to fear death. It was these desires that lead him to sell off pieces of his soul in the most vicious way possible until he became rotten to his very core.

"It didn't take long for his outward appearance to decay, as well. He lost all traces of his hair and his nose took on snake-like slits for nostrils. His eyes turned red, the pupils now little more than slits. His body was so unnaturally thin that it resembled a skeleton. And his lips completely disappeared.

"That man went on to become the greatest evil that anyone in my world has ever known and when he finally died, it was alone, without any remorse for what he had done."

Ron ran his thumb along Erik's cheekbone. "You ask me what could be worse than your face? _That's_ what's worse." He paused for a moment, a small chuckle escaping from him. "I suppose after having to face off against someone like that, nothing else can really frighten me anymore."

Erik had no idea what to say to that. His mind was a jumble of thoughts that he tried to force into some kind of order. He took the first thing that he could hold onto and went with it. "Ron, what do you mean by 'your world'?"

Ron sunk his teeth into his lip, looking uncomfortable for the first time since this conversation had begun. "Erik…there's something I have to tell you…"


	16. Warnings and Acceptance

**Phew, this took longer than I thought! I'm sorry for the wait but things were rather crazy as I prepared for my first year of college. Ironically this chapter was actually completed during my first two days at college.**

**I hope you enjoy it!**

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* * *

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Madame Giry was on the stage of the opera house, moving through the basic warm-up drills for the ballet dancers. Despite her age, she was able to move through each step with the kind of grace that could only belong to a seasoned ballerina. It wasn't really necessary for her to continue to practice such things, but she had always done her best to keep her body flexible. She didn't want to end up like some ballet mistresses, who in their old age could only instruct their students how to move without actually being able to do the step themselves.

She arched her leg up about to unfold it into the air, only to pause as a sudden noise from the entrance broke her concentration. She lowered her leg back down to the ground so that she could see what was causing such a ruckus.

Philippe de Chagny was charging up the carpet-lined path between the rows of seats towards the stage. He brushed off the cleaning women that tried to catch him before he could reach his destination.

Madame Giry answered the helpless looks that the women sent her with a smile, motioning that they could leave if they wanted to, an offer that they accepted without hesitation. She sent off the muttering stage workers with a sharp dismissal, not wanting the gossip to spread any farther than it would already.

Philippe had already climbed onto the stage by the time she turned to face him, a determined set to his features. He didn't waste any time in stating the reason behind his visit. "I want to see Ron."

Madame Giry folded her arms over her chest with a soft sigh. It had been like this ever since Ron had disappeared after his performance.

Philippe had darted into the Opera Populaire that day with an eager expression on his face as he asked after Ron. He claimed that he was under orders from his mother to invite the boy back to their estate to dine with them, but it was obvious that he was the one that really wanted Ron to come.

He was crestfallen to learn that Ron had decided to spend his break from work away from the opera house. He seemed to have already planned a whole list of entertainments for them to share together, even without having Ron's permission to do so. There would be trips around Paris to see the sites, rides out to the Bois, and meals at the various fine restaurants throughout the city.

He hadn't wanted to believe at first, nearly turning the whole place upside down in his efforts to find Ron. It was only once those attempts lead to nothing that he asked to see the letter that had been sent concerning Ron's whereabouts. After he had finished reading through it, he grudgingly admitted defeat.

That had kept him away for a few days until he returned, demanding to know where Ron was staying so that he could go visit him. The mangers didn't have any answers for him. They didn't know where this mysterious patron of Ron's had lodged him, only that they trusted this man with the safety of one of their principal singers.

So, in the end, Philippe had turned to the one person that always seemed to have all the answers when it came to anything about the Opera Populaire—Madame Giry. And he had been coming to her ever since, despite her repeated attempts to turn him away.

"I have already told you that it can't be done," Madame Giry said.

"But I don't understand why not!" Philippe said. "If I knew where he was staying then I could be there and back in hardly any time at all. I just want to see him!"

"I know what you want, child," Madame Giry said, "but such a visit cannot be allowed. I have already put your request before Ron's patron and he has refused to allow it."

"Refused to allow it!" Philippe echoed. "And why is that?"

"Because he knows that you would distract Ron from his work," Madame Giry replied.

"But he shouldn't be working at all!" Philippe shot back. "Everyone that works here is supposed to be on leave!"

"No true singer ever really stops working," Madame Giry said.

Philippe threw his hands up into the air in frustration. "Oh, of course not!" He took a deep breath, shaking his head in an effort to calm himself back down.

Madame Giry felt something within her soften towards the boy. He remained her so much of his father at that moment, the man who had rushed through the opera house in search of Christine after she had been taken by the Phantom. It would seem as if his son was heading down the same path that he had before and against the very same rival.

She couldn't allow history to repeat itself, not after it had nearly torn the opera house apart when it had first occurred. The events had left a lingering imprint on the main participants in them, changing their lives forever. She had seen the girl that she had raised like a daughter lose the innocence with which she had once looked out on the world with, a boy be forced to become a man far more quickly than he should have, and a close friend gain even more wounds than he had had before. She wouldn't allow something like that to happen again, not when she had the chance to stop it.

"Monsieur, there is something I must tell you," She said. She could see the exasperation in Philippe's face as he turned towards her.

"And what is that, Madame?" He asked.

"That Ron is not free," Madame Giry said.

Philippe was visibly taken aback by her words, struggling to think of what to say in response. "Are you saying that he's engaged to be married?" He asked.

"No, it isn't like that," Madame Giry said. "I doubt that Ron would be able to marry, even if he wanted to…"

Philippe stared at her in confusion, his brow furrowing downwards. "I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning…"

"A singer of Ron's caliber is ever really free," Madame Giry said. "Their lives are forever intertwined with their art. And their greatest tie of all is to their teacher…their master."

She knew that Philippe would despise her choice of words so she wasn't surprised by the way that his hands clenched at his sides.

"Their _master_!" He spat out.

"Indeed," Madame Giry said. "I know what you want from Ron, but such a thing can never happen."

"And why is that?" Philippe demanded.

"Your differences in status should be reason enough," Madame Giry said. "Your father shook the morals of the aristocracy to its very core when he choose to marry your mother—a simple peasant girl that had grown into a famous soprano. I doubt any of the upper class, even your father, would allow the same thing to happen twice."

"I don't care about any of that," Philippe scoffed. "If I did then I would never have befriended Ron when we were children or sought him out after I saw him perform after all these years." He narrowed his eyes at Madame Giry, jabbing a finger towards her. "It isn't up to you to decide whether or not Ron is free, that is for him to determine. So, until he tells me otherwise, I will continue to seek him out." He tipped his head towards her in a mechanical movement of respect. "Good day, Madame."

Madame Giry raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose as she watched Philippe storm away from her. Why couldn't the boy just see sense? It would save him a great deal of pain in the long run.

* * *

Philippe was unable to suppress the wave of anger that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't want to believe what Madame Giry had told him, but the words kept creeping back into his mind.

If he had a choice, would Ron really sacrifice his art for the sake of love? Philippe's mother had done it but he had seen the way that she watched the performers on the stage with a wistful expression, as though she longed to be able to take their place. Could that be considered as proof that a singer could never really break away from their art? And as for the relationship with their teachers…hadn't Ron dismissed Philippe without a thought after learning that his teacher wanted to meet with him that night?

He paused to lean against the wall behind him, ignoring the curious looks of the women who were busy scrubbing at the steps a little ways away. He rubbed his fingers over his temples with a sigh. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell over such matters right now. He would have to wait until Ron returned from wherever he was then he could question the other boy on these matters.

* * *

Erik paced across the expanse of his bedroom with a frown as he tried to sort out everything that Ron had just told him. He stopped some minutes later, turning back to face Ron, who had taken his place in the chair by his desk. "So…you have magic?"

Ron dipped his head in a shaky motion of assent. His eyes shifted down towards the floor as his hands started to fidget anxiously in his lap. "Does that bother you?" He asked.

"What is that suppose to mean?" Erik asked.

"It means…" Ron trailed off for a moment, his hands tightening up now instead. "Do you think that I'm sort of freak?"

Erik took a sharp inhale of breath upon hearing that horrible word pass through Ron's mouth. He forward so that he could slip his hand under the boy's chin and left his face up towards his own. "I would _never_ think such a thing," He said softly. "You have just provided me with the final piece of the puzzle that is you. And now I find myself beholding someone even more precious than I thought he was before."

Ron's eyes snapped back towards him, his voice little more than a hushed whisper as he spoke. "Truly?"

"Truly," Erik replied, his tone firm. A smile crept onto his thin lips at the wonder that filled Ron's eyes. "I just have one question for you." It was one that he was rather uneasy about asking, but he knew that he had to or else it would claw forever at the back of his mind.

Ron regarded him with a wary expression. "And what is that?" He asked.

Erik let out a quiet sigh. "Is there anything that your magic can do to fix…" He took his hand from Ron's chin to wave it towards his face in a silent question.

"_Oh_." Ron worked his teeth across his lower lip as he composed an answer. "There are glamours you could use," He admitted. "Everyone would be charmed to see you how you wanted them to see you. It wouldn't be a _real_ fix, though. It would just be like you were wearing a different sort of mask and…I don't think that you would like that."

Erik knew that he was right. No matter how tempting it was to imagine what it would be like to walk through the world with another face, one that wouldn't make people shrink away from him in terror, none of it would be real. In the end, he would still know that despite what other people might be seeing, his face was still as ghastly as it had always been. "No, I wouldn't," He said. "But…I might like to try it at least once. If only to see what it would be like to walk through the world like a…a normal person."

It felt horribly degrading to admit to such a weakness, but he knew that if he could confess such things to anyone then it would be to Ron.

"Of course," Ron said. There was no pity in his eyes just an acceptance that shone so brightly that Erik had to avert his eyes.

A companionable silence descended for a moment until Erik cleared his throat, moving his eyes back towards Ron. "You will have to return back above tomorrow."

Ron stared at him with confusion in his wide eyes. "But why?" He asked. "I thought that everything has been settled!"

Erik chuckled at how fast the boy jumped to his own conclusions. "And it has, child," He said. "But your break from the opera house ends to tomorrow and I doubt the mangers would be happy with me if I kept one of their stars for longer than I should."

"Oh, right," Ron said. There was a faint blush on his cheeks now that was entirely too adorable. He shot Erik a hopeful glance. "Will I be allowed to return?"

Erik felt something warm rush through his chest. None of the people who he had brought down into his lair ever wanted to willingly return to it, _none_. "Of course you can," He said. "As long as it's not at a time that will affect your work." He wagged a warning finger at Ron. "And don't think that our lessons our done. They shall be held in your dressing room until such a time that you can return here."

"I understand," Ron beamed. "Only…what should I tell people about where I've been?"

"I already took care of that," Erik said. "You have been staying with a kind patron a little ways off from Paris, visiting different theaters in order to learn more about the art."

Ron burst out into laughter at this. "You never cease to surprise me, Erik!" He said. "You always have everything worked out, don't you?"

"Indeed," Erik said. He offered his hand out to Ron, who took it without a thought, accepting the assistance in rising from the chair. "Thank you," He whispered. He didn't say what he meant, but he didn't have to.

"Your welcome," Ron responded. "Just…" He reached up to brush his fingers across Erik's cheek. "Please, don't wear the mask when you're around me. I like being able to see your face without it."

Erik could do little more than stare down at the boy before him in amazement for a long time before he moved his head downwards in assent, not trusting his own voice. He was certain that Ron would never cease to surprise him.


	17. Lectures and Touches

**Okay, seriously, feel free to hate me for the lack of updates. I looked at how long it had been since I added a chapter to this story and hit my own self over the head. The only excuse I can offer is that college seriously trashed my inspiration for my fan fics. Fortunately, I already have the next few chapters planned out so things should move much more smoothly from now on. **

**And I must offer a thanks to ceres51892 for giving me a suggestion for what Ron could do to help Erik.**

* * *

It was a bleary eyed group of Hogwarts students that stumbled back to the Opera Populaire. It was clear that they had thrown themselves into their first break with vehemence, overjoyed to be free from the rigorous schedule at the opera house. They had indulged in all that Paris had to offer and were now finding it difficult to return to what was expected of them.

There were three students, however, who suffered from no such affliction.

Hermione had all but memorized the steps to each dance through her lessons with Madame Giry. The ballet mistress couldn't help admiring the girl for possessing a determination that could rival her own. She favored Hermione with rare words of praise, placing her as a figure for the newer dancers to look to for guidance. Even the seasoned ballerinas, who had long since learned how to temper pleasure with discipline, began to accept her into their fold, showering her with advice on how to perfect her craft.

Everyone was relieved that their two stars hadn't been damaged by the break either. Although Harry bemoaned the fact that he would have to play yet another grieving female, he already had a fair grasp on his lines for Desdemona and was resolute to bring the proper emotion into his voice as he sang the part. It might not have been something that he would readily admit to, but he had developed a bit of the soft spot for the character after researching her more and wanted to give her justice on the stage.

Then there was Ron. He had been ambushed by the ballet girls minutes after his return. Everyone was curious about the identity of his patron and what he had been doing over the break, but only the gossip spreaders of the opera house would actually question him openly on it. The only information that Ron would disclose, however, was that he had been taken in by a teacher who had been providing him with lessons. And the evidence of such a claim was clear in his voice.

It was hard to tell where exactly the change had come from, but there was no denying that it was there. It was in the smooth roll of his voice through each change in pitch, the way that each note slipped through his lips with an energy that seemed to transform them into something powerful. It was some sort of transformation that couldn't be explained, something that just made his voice sound like _more_ then it had been before.

Madame Giry stood amongst those that flocked around the stage to listen to him sing, her expression different from all the awestruck ones that lay around her. There was a sense of recognition in her eyes mixed with pride. Her daughter stood next to with the same sort of recollection about her face, only hers was tinged with worry.

* * *

Ron darted down the spiral staircase that lead down into the backstage. Their rehearsals had finished early today, a rare occurrence that left everyone happy. It had left him with a slot of time to fill before his lesson with Erik and he had used it to send a letter off by owl to Hogwarts. He had composed it before the start of rehearsals the day before, addressing it to Madame Pince, the school librarian.

He hadn't really been lying to Erik when he told the man that there was nothing that could necessarily fix his deformity. He just wasn't sure whether there was any sort of healing that could mend such an aliment. So he had sent off a request for whatever books Madam Pince could find on advanced healing. He made sure to word the appeal with care since it was such an important one and could only hope that it would be enough to appease the stuffy librarian.

The halls that lead to the dressing rooms were mercifully empty since he didn't want to risk falling into a conversation that would make him be late for his lesson. There had been a lecture waiting for him the one time he had allowed such a thing to happen. The only cause he had for delay, which was allowed, was if rehearsals ran over, otherwise he was expected to be punctual at all times. There had been irritation within the scolding he had received, but it was the disappointment that he could detect there that had hit him the hardest.

He felt a sense of relief as he arrived at his dressing room with plenty of time to spare, glad that his trip up to the roof hadn't delayed him. It only took a few seconds, however, for this emotion to shift into confusion as he realized that Madame Giry was standing outside the door to the room with her daughter at her side. "Is there something you need, Madame Giry?" He asked. He wondered whether she was here with some announcement from the management or Monsieur Reyer, although he hoped that this wasn't the case.

Madame Giry inclined her head to him in a slight movement. "Indeed. I was wondering if my daughter and myself could have a word with you."

"Um…" Ron scrambled to find the proper words to explain why such a thing would be impossible. "I actually have another engagement so perhaps another time would be—"

Madame Giry cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Don't fret, you still have a fair amount of time before you have to meet with your teacher." A small, amused smile came onto her lips as the boy gaped at her. "Besides, we have an important matter to discuss."

"And what is that?" Ron asked.

Madame Giry shook her head at him. "It is safer to discuss such things within the privacy of your dressing room. So, I ask you to please allow us inside."

Ron nodded before moving forward to open the door to his dressing room, allowing the women to enter first then following in after them. He closed the door behind them, wondering what was so critical that the Giry ladies had to discuss it with him now.

He barely had the chance to turn around before Meg was rushing towards him. Her hands shot out to clutch so tightly to his arms that it was nearly painful, holding him in place as her wide, anxious eyes inspected every inch of him. "Ron, are you alright?" She asked.

"Of course I am," Ron said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Meg sunk her teeth into her lower lip, as though whatever she wanted to say made her feel even more nervous then she already was. "Because you've been with him," She murmured. "_The Phantom_."

Ron grew tense under her grip without being able to stop himself. He had thought that she had laid her suspicions to rest after days passed after his return to the surface without her instigating any form of confrontation with him. Now it seemed as if she had just been waiting for the right time. "That wasn't who I was with, Meg," He said. "I was offered a chance to learn from an influential patron and that's all."

Meg arched an incredulous brow at him, a trace of her normal self breaking through. "Oh, really? Then why was I rendered unconscious for trying to stop the opera ghost on his way to your dressing room?"

"W—What?" Ron knew that he had allowed his control to slip by stammering, but he couldn't help it. Erik had never told him that he had done such a thing to the ballet dancer. Still, he had to admit that he could see how such a thing probably wouldn't come up in daily conversation. "Perhaps you were mistaken."

"I most certainly was not," Meg said. "That man has a voice that is impossible to forget and it was there with me in corridor. He drugged me for trying to stand in the way of him and his prey. And now he has you!"

"_Meg_."

The voice was soft, yet firm enough to cause the person it addressed to freeze. Meg let her hands fall away from Ron's arms, turning around to face Madame Giry. "Yes, mother?"

"We will never accomplish anything like this," Madame Giry said. She swept her hand towards the direction the vanity. "Why don't you go sit down while I explain things to Ron?"

Meg hesitated for just a second before doing as her mother bid, moving over to sit down in the small, plushy chair placed in front of the vanity. She kept her eyes fixed on the two people before her, however, with her arms crossed over her chest.

Madame Giry waited until her daughter was situated to turn back to Ron. "Now, Ron, I think I owe you an explanation."

Well, that wasn't exactly what Ron had been expecting. He had thought that she would be the one demanding answers from him instead of the other way around. "An explanation about what, Madame?" He asked.

"About my dealings with the Phantom," Madame Giry replied. She raised a hand as the boy before her opened his mouth. "There is no use in trying to deny that you know him. I have known for quite some time that he had reached out to you."

Meg let out a squawk of shock at this, her reaction mirrored in Ron's expression. "You _knew_? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wasn't sure what his intentions were, at first," Madame Giry said. "When he had me deliver a note to Ron after his debut, I thought he only wanted to praise the new stars. It wasn't until I found out that a similar letter had not been given to Harry that I began to have some suspicions. Ones that were confirmed after he had me bring that rose to Ron. There could be no mistaking the meaning behind that gift."

"But why did he have you deliver those things," Ron asked, "instead of just doing it himself?"

"You're still doing his dirty work," Meg grumbled.

Madame Giry ignored the comment from her daughter, answering the question directed at her instead. "I have always done such things for him. He employed my services upon his arrival at the opera house. It took little more than a year for him to realize that I would follow his commands without the lure of his voice. He revealed himself to me not long after that and since then I have been the closest thing he has to a friend." She cast a significant look at Ron. "Until now that is."

"Is that what you think he is to me?" Ron said.

"That is what I hope for," Madame Giry said. "Unless there is something more between the two of you then only that."

Ron felt a blush creeping up the back of his neck before he could think to suppress it. Her words made him imagine what it would be like if his relationship with Erik was more than what it was. It was easy to picture, really, since some of the things were ones that the two of them already did together, such as sharing meals or stories about their lives. Yet, to envision those things with a different sort of intimacy being there… He shook his head hurriedly, as though to rid himself of the images before they could form. "No, he is nothing more than my friend." A small smile appeared on his lips as his mind supplied the other title he could call Erik by, one he was proud to be allowed to use. "And my teacher."

Madame Giry cast a similar smile at him in return. "I recognized his influence in your voice after hearing you sing upon your return. It would appear that you have managed to make great progress within the span of two weeks."

Ron was struck by how pleasant it was to be able to talk about Erik with someone else. He understood why it was impossible for him to speak freely about his teacher, but there was still a part of him that wanted to be able to praise Erik for everything that he had done. So, now that he was allowed the opportunity, he decided that he might as well take it. Or, at least, until someone else interrupted.

"How can you be so happy about this?"

Meg was back on her feet now, staring at the other two as though they were some kind of traitors. "This is just like how it began last time." Her gaze shifted over towards her mother almost pleadingly. "How can you encourage this?"

Madame Giry let out a sigh tinged with faint strands of exasperation. "Meg, I don't know if you haven't noticed," She said, "but Ron is not Christine."

"But he's heading down the same path!" Meg shot back.

"Perhaps," Madame Giry said. "Yet, he is going down it in a different direction."

It was obvious that Meg hadn't been expecting to receive a rather cryptic twist of her own words. Her brow furrowed downwards as she tried to make sense of what her mother had said. "What do you mean?"

The corners of Madame Giry's lips turned up as if in relief. "Ron might be experiencing some of the same things that happened to Christine, but he is not _her_. He's a different person, who will react to whatever happens in his own way. And he's far too unlike Christine to follow the same path that she took." The smile that had been on her lips before disappeared now. "Besides, the Phantom doesn't want the past to repeat itself anymore then we do."

"But that doesn't mean that it won't," Meg said.

Ron could tell that there was to be no getting through to the ballet girl this way, so he decided to take his own approach. He moved in front of Meg, placing a hand on her shoulder to make her focus on him. "Meg, when I was taken down bellow, it wasn't through a kidnapping after which I was held against my will like some helpless damsel. Once he appeared in my room, I could have decided at any point that I wanted to pull away from him instead, but I decided to go with him. I _choose_ to go with him. And after I was down there, he provided me with every comfort imaginable. Not mention…" He paused to take a deep breath, strengthening himself for what he had to say next. "I've seen his face."

Meg let out a gasp, one of her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Even Madame Giry tensed visibly at the admission.

"But he let me," Ron was quick to add. "He let me remove it so that I could see his face."

"Impossible," Madame Giry breathed. "He would never allow such a thing."

"Maybe not before," Ron said, "but he did for me."

"So, you know why he hides," Madame Giry said. Her lips were pressed together into a thin, firm line. "And can I ask how you reacted? Was it with fear, horror, or perhaps even disgust?"

"None!" Ron exclaimed. "Why does everyone seem to think I should have reacted like that?"

Meg seemed rather nervous to say anything, but she plowed ahead anyway. "Well, Ron, he is—"

Ron cut her off before she could finish the sentence with something that he didn't want to hear. "He's a man," He said. "That's all he is, Meg, just a _man_. It doesn't matter what his face looks like; it doesn't stop him from being human."

Meg stared at him in silence for a minute before inclining her head to him. "It looks like I will have to respect your wishes then." She reached up to brush the tips of her fingers across his cheek. "Just promise me that you won't let anything bad come from your relationship with him." She moved around him before he could reply, slipping out the door with a gentle click.

Ron glanced over at Madame Giry after she didn't follow her daughter, surprised by the warmth he found in her expression.

"It seems Erik has chosen well this time," She said. "I think that I can trust you to have his best interests at heart." And then she was gone, just like her daughter, before Ron could say a word.

Ron was staring at the door with his brow furrowed until he heard a sound from behind him. It was so faint that he nearly missed it, but once he did it was impossible to mistake the press of a foot on the floor. He whirled around to see Erik sliding the glass of the large mirror back into place once he had moved through it. He felt his cheeks fill with heat as a thought occurred to him. "How long have you been there?" He demanded.

"Somewhere around the point where you started defending my honor." Erik shook his head, although there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice. "I should have known that she would start to meddle in my affairs again at some point."

Ron rolled his eyes with a huff that was suppose to be irritated, although he found that he couldn't find much of the actual emotion to back it up. "A warning would have been nice, you know," He said.

Erik chuckled at the light scolding he received. "I'm sorry, I will make sure to do so next time." His expression sobered a moment later, however. "Still, I want to thank you for speaking of me in such a way. There was no need for you to do such a thing."

"What are you talking about? Of course, I had to…"

Ron trailed off, forgetting what he had meant to say as Erik began to move towards him. There was such a strong sense of intent in every step the man took that very air seemed to be charged with it. He didn't stop until he was right before the boy, rising a hand upwards slowly. Ron sucked in his breath as it began to move towards his head, only to let it go in a rush as the hand feel abruptly away.

Erik took a few steps backwards, all of the former power gone. There was a faint tremor to his voice as he spoke. "My apologies. I am delaying your lesson after our time together has already been shorted. You still have yet to fully master the solo for Othello at the end of Act Two."

Ron knew that he should say something in response, but he couldn't stop dwelling on what had nearly happened. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember anytime when Erik had actually _touched _him. He had taught the proper way that a singer must stand to enhance their voice through only through worded directions. He actually seemed to _avoid_ any physical contact with him. "Erik." He waited until the man's eyes had returned to him to speak. "You are allowed to touch me, you know."

The way Erik's spine snapped straight at this made the boy worry that he might have said something wrong, but his voice was soft as he spoke. "Is that so?" He asked.

"Yes," Ron said. "I want you to touch me, actually."

Erik let out a sound that could have been a groan, but there wasn't much time wonder if it was. He settled his hand upon Ron's head so lightly that it almost felt as if it wasn't even there. The boy was about to remark about how he could press harder when it slid down from his head, the sensation of fingertips on his cheek causing him to swallow his words.

It seemed like an eternity had passed until Erik moved his hand away with a deep breath. "And now we really must get to work," He said.

Ron nodded at him with a smile, assuming the position he had been taught to assume. Yet, he found himself unable to stop the pounding in his heart.

* * *

**Next chapter: Ron receives his invitation to the de Changy estate to dine with them.**


	18. Invitations

**So this is the part where I thank all of you for putting up with my random late updates. I'm glad you all still love this story as much as you do because it's what gives me the motivation to write. **

**This story got its first flame, of sorts, though. Has anyone else noticed the sudden rise in accounts made on here for the sole purpose of critiquing other people's work? This isn't meant to bash any such accounts (some of them probably give out good criticism, I'm sure) it just seems strange in some ways. **

* * *

The performance of _Otello_ went off without a hitch, just like Erik knew it would. He knew that he was an exacting teacher, but Monsieur Reyer could be just as difficult. And it was well known that Madame Giry expected nothing but perfection from her pupils. The ballet mistress had a habit of placing the less qualified dancers in the back rows and was not above not allowing those unable to manage from the performance.

He wasn't very surprised, therefore, when Hermione Granger was placed among the principle ballerinas to open the dance; a role typically reserved for more seasoned performers. The girl was one of the most dedicated girls to enter the corps de ballet in a long time. He had already thought to talk with Madame Giry about giving her a more prominent role in the group. He should have expected that the ballet mistress already would have considered such a change, however, since their mindset was often similar when it came to such things.

Harry made it easy to forget that he was not in fact female. He wore each elaborate gown with all the grace of a highborn lady. And when he sang it was as though Desdemona was on the stage instead of him. There were few dry eyes in the house after his rendition of the death scene.

Ron conquered the stage the moment he set foot on it, however. Silence descended upon the house once he began to sing. Even the worse gossipers didn't want to risk the chance of missing anything while they conversed. He made them want to stay on the journey with him, no matter what happened.

Every audience member rose to applaud once the curtain fell, even Erik.

* * *

Ron was still riding the high from the performance back in his dressing room. He had changed from his costume back into normal clothes. He might have gone to join the celebrations being held backstage if he wasn't so sure that Erik might come visit him. If he was this impressed with what he had done then surely his teacher had to be too.

He gave a start as his door slid open with a gentle knock, relaxing once he saw that it was only Madame Giry. "What is it, Madame?"

Madame Giry frowned slightly as she spoke. "Philippe de Chagny wants to see you."

"Oh." Ron felt the energy within him deflate somewhat. He hadn't seen the other boy since the night he had been taken down bellow. But the ballet girls had been bursting to the brim with gossip about the young lord. Apparently Philippe had been to see Madame Giry nearly everyday over the break, demanding to be allowed to visit Ron.

The ballet girls had expected him to already know since it was rumored that it was his patron who continued to deny the request. Erik had never mentioned such a thing, but Ron wouldn't be surprised if it were true. It made him wonder if Madame Giry had been right to warn him about his relationship with Philippe.

The ballet mistress must have been able to sense his apprehension, for her voice was gentle as she spoke. "You can always turn him away."

Ron's head snapped towards her in surprise. "I can do that?" he asked.

"Of course you can," Madame Giry said. It wasn't uncommon for members of the opera company to refuse to receive certain visitors. Besides, it would do the de Chagny boy good to be reminded that Ron could choose about wanting to see him or not. "It would be best to distance yourself from that boy, anyway."

Ron tilted his head towards the side, brow furrowing slightly. "Why should I do that?" he asked.

Madame Giry sighed to herself. She knew that this wasn't going to be easy. Ron, for whatever reason, seemed strongly attached to Philippe in his own right, despite how he might protest it. She just hoped that it was a connection made only through friendship and nothing more. "I told you before," she said, "that _he_ wouldn't approve of such a relationship."

"You mean Erik," Ron said. He dragged his teeth across his lower lip. "Does he really still have such a grudge against the de Chagny family?"

"Do you know his history with the Vicomte?" Madame Giry replied.

"Yes, I do," Ron said, "but it isn't fair to blame the son for the sins of the father."

"It is not that simple," Madame Giry said. "The truth of the matter is that Philippe is too much like his father." She held up her hand to silence Ron when the boy opened his mouth. "You have never met the Vicomte so you cannot understand. Philippe resembles the man in a way that is nearly uncanny and, given his sudden interest in you…" She trailed off, spreading out her hands. "You can see why Erik is concerned."

"He thinks history will repeat itself," Ron muttered.

"And he is not the only one," Madame Giry said. She arched a brow as Ron's eyes turned towards her. "You, a singer with extraordinary natural talent, are being courted by a de Chagny and trained by the Opera Ghost at the same time. Forgive me for seeing the similarities."

"What?" Ron spluttered. "Philippe hasn't been courting me!"

"Oh, so it hasn't gotten to that stage yet then?" Madame Giry said. "All the better. You must sever the connection before it becomes to difficult too do so."

Ron knew that there was some truth in what she was saying. The situation he was currently in was remarkably like the one Christine had found herself in years ago. Yet he, unlike her, had the chance to stop things before they began to grow out of control.

But was this really how it had to be? Did he really have to make a choice?

Despite the efforts made on Philippe's part, he didn't have any plans on letting his relationship with the boy go beyond the friendship they had now. And it wasn't like Erik was showering him with shows of romance, anyway. Their relationship was nothing more than that of teacher and student with the backdrop of their strong friendship. Even when Erik taken him, it had been to take their lessons to the next level, not the daring kidnap that Christine's had been, all designed so that the man could profess his love.

It was, after all, like he had told Erik during their argument down bellow—he was _not _Christine.

"Thank you for the advice, Madame Giry," he said, "but I don't think that's necessary yet."

"I suppose that even if I try to argue," Madame Giry said, "I won't be able to convince you?" She heaved a deep sigh as Ron shook his head in reply. "Fine then, I will show your de Chagny boy in." She left before Ron could protest that Philippe wasn't his boy.

She returned only a few minutes later with Philippe, who surged into the room the moment the door was open. His excitement was almost adorable in a way that had Ron biting down on his lip to hide a smile.

"Shall I leave you two alone then?" Madame Giry asked. There was a faintly disapproving tone in her voice.

"Yes, please, Madame," Ron said.

Madame Giry dipped her head in a gesture not only of assent but farewell. She cast one critical glance at Philippe, which the boy didn't seem to see, before she left.

Philippe reacted the instant the door was shut, seizing Ron's hand in his. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

Ron raised his eyebrows at the other boy, pulling his hand out of his grasp. "I've been with my teacher," he said. "That's something you should already know, seeing as you've been pestering Madame Giry about it every day of the break."

Philippe ran a hand through his hair. "So you heard about that then?" he said.

"It was rather hard not to," Ron chuckled. "This place absorbs gossip like nothing else."

This drew a small smile from Philippe. "Well, yes, that is true," he said. He cleared his throat in a way that seemed rather nervous. "Your teacher must be very important to you."

Ron bit down on the inside of his mouth, reminding himself that there was no way the other boy could know who his teacher was. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

It was Philippe's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You trusted him enough to stay with him for two weeks," he said. "I think that speaks for itself." He shot a glance at Ron. "You must have figured out that I was trying to visit you there."

"Yes," Ron said. "And that you were turned down each time."

"Indeed," Philippe said. There was a bitter edge to his voice. "I was rejected each time by your teacher. He claimed I would distract you from your work. Apparently he wanted to keep you all to himself."

That last comment made Ron frown. "I wouldn't put it like that." Except it was true in a sense. It wasn't like he had seen anyone outside of Erik during the break, after all. But it hadn't been for the reasons that Philippe seemed to be implying. "Why do you keep mentioning him anyway?"

"I'm sorry," Philippe groaned. "Its just because of a conversation I had with Madame Giry. She suggested that all great singers are a slave to their art with their teachers as their masters."

Ron wasn't sure why his heart leapt into his throat at the thought of Erik as his "master". He just knew that it wasn't due to fear. "I wouldn't call us slaves," he said, "we're just devoted to what we do."

"That I can see." A huge grin spread across Philippe's face. "I saw you on stage tonight. You were magnificent."

Ron wasn't able to stop himself from smiling back. "That's what you say every time," he said.

"Well you keep getting better," Philippe gushed. "Hopefully I'll be able to convince you to sing for my mother if you accept our invitation."

"Invitation?" Ron echoed.

"Ah, yes, pardon me," Philippe said. He cleared his throat with a flourish, his eyes full of amusement as he adopted a proper, stuffy tone. "The de Chagny family would like to extend an invitation for you to join them for lunch at their estate." He dropped the voice with a laugh, sliding back into his warm, deep tone. "It will be after you finish with _Otello_, of course. Mother didn't want to interrupt your performance schedule in any way, which I hear is very pressing. But after each performance run you get one free day before diving into a new project so my family decided that would be a good idea for you to come."

"Will your father be there?" Ron asked.

"Yes," Philippe said. "So please don't let on that you've met my mother already. He doesn't know about her coming to the opera with me." That the Vicomte would have a fit about it if he found out was something that didn't need to be said.

"Don't worry," Ron said, "I won't say a word about it."

"Does that mean you're coming?" Philippe asked. He positively beamed when Ron nodded at him. "Perfect! I'll pick you up at eleven on that day then." He took Ron's hand again, bringing it up to his lips. He brushed a kiss across it while keeping his eyes locked with the other boy's. "Until then."

This was only a friendship, Ron reminded himself. There was no need for his heart to beat so wildly at such an act or for his voice to come out hoarse as he repeated back, "Until then."

Philippe released his hand while casting him a final smile. Then he turned on his heel, heading out the door of the dressing room.

"It seems the de Chagny brat is still as persistent as ever."

Ron recognized that voice even as he spun around on instinct to find Erik standing in front of the mirror. "_Merlin_, Erik! You promised to warn me next time." His brow furrowed as he realized what the opera ghost had referred to Philippe as. "And Philippe isn't a brat."

"Are you sure?" Erik asked. "He certainly seems annoying enough to qualify as one." His eyes darted over to Ron. "And I noticed that you are quite free about admitting him into your dressing room."

"He's just a friend," Ron said. "Nothing more."

"But that isn't what the boy thinks," Erik said. There was a sharp edge to his voice.

Ron couldn't stop the words from slipping out as a thought occurred to him. "Are you…jealous?" he asked. He sucked in his breath when Erik snapped up straight at such a suggestion, hoping that he hadn't said the wrong thing.

"I wouldn't put it like that," Erik said, eventually. "I just don't trust the boy."

"But you trust me," Ron said. He flattered under the intensity of the gaze that his teacher settled on him. "Don't you?"

"Of course," Erik said softly.

"Then prove it," Ron said. He moved forward until he was standing directly in front of the man. "Let me attend lunch at the de Chagny estate during the down day." He inspected the face before him carefully, even though he could only see the eyes behind the mask. "You came to tell me I couldn't go, didn't you?"

Erik let out a sigh. "You have already met Christine without me being able to do anything about it, but Raoul is something else entirely." It was the first time he had ever said either of their names aloud to Ron. "He is a part of the aristocracy, a world that can never accept a person like yourself."

"It accepted Christine," Ron pointed out.

"But not without much protest," Erik said. "Christine had to fight her way uphill to be accepted by the wealthy society of Paris. It wasn't until she produced a son that they began to consider not slamming their doors shut in her face. And that is what it all comes down to."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"Christine might have been a commoner," Erik said, "but she was a _female_. She could carry a child, produce an heir to the de Chagny title, something which you cannot do."

Ron bristled under the meaning behind such a statement. "So the aristocrats are all homophobic?" he bit out.

Something in Erik's expression softened with pity at that. "Not all of them perhaps," he said, "but most. They all come from old money that often translates into old values. Many will expect Philippe to take you only as a lover, someone to experiment with before he has to settle down with a girl from a proper family." His tone became gentler after Ron lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I only wanted you to understand."

"I do understand," Ron said. He raised his eyes to meet with Erik's again. "And I still want to go to the de Chagny estate."

Erik was torn between feeling exasperated and impressed. "You really are determined, aren't you," he said.

"Of course," Ron said. "I've lived my whole life putting up with those above looking down on me. I won't stop doing it now." He reached out, pausing before placing his hand down on Erik's arm. "And you just have to trust that I won't let anything bad happen."

Erik nodded, although he still felt uneasy. He trust Ron to look after himself, but he wasn't sure whether the boy would know what qualified in his eyes as something bad when it came to the de Chagny family. He would just have to wait and see.


	19. Lunch Date

**This chapter is coming out so much later than I expected! The only excuses I can offer is that I started it when my computer was swept away for repairs and by the time I got it back it was nearly time for my to start my new semester at college, which is one of the biggest inspiration killers. But it's here now and I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

When the down that day came Ron hadn't been surprised to find Harry and Hermione waiting for him outside his dressing room. He just hadn't been expecting them to be accompanied by a flock of ballet girls. He had tried to look to Harry for some kind of explanation, only for the other boy to seem just as lost as he was.

Hermione, on the other hand, turned towards the ballerinas the instant he arrived. She gave them orders in a manner that was strongly similar to the way Madame Giry would have addressed them. And the girls hadn't rebelled against such treatment either. Instead they had hurried off to fulfill the tasks given to them, just as if the commands had come from the ballet mistress herself.

It only went to show just how high Hermione had risen in the ranks of the corps de ballet. Ever since the opening night of _Otello_ where she had been amongst the principal dancers, Hermione had become as much as a rising star as her two male friends. The critics had raved about the "fresh face" amongst the usual leading ballerinas. She had become the darling of the seasoned dancers and Madame Giry seemed even fonder of her than before. It was a position that brought with it plenty of jealousy from amongst some of the lesser dancers, but the others viewed her more with respect than anything, wanting to follow her example.

She had shooed Ron into the dressing room almost immediately, filled with plans on what he should wear. Apparently she didn't trust him to dress himself when it came to such an important occasion.

"I'm just going to lunch, Hermione!" Ron had reminded her constantly.

Hermione had only scoffed each time, however. "Lunch at the home of one of the Opera Populaire's finest patrons!" she would shoot back. "And a Vicomte at that! You have to be well dressed."

And she hadn't been above borrowing from the costume department to make him that way either. The ballet girls had been sent off to this place, as it turned out, to fetch certain garments that Hermione had gotten permission to borrow.

His white button up shirt had been deemed satisfactory, but an olive green jacket with shiny brass buttons had been selected to go over it. His jeans had been dismissed immediately, even if they were the best pair he owned, replaced by black pants that fitted him fairly well after a few charms performed by Hermione. He had actually been a little relieved when he had received dark dress shoes to replace his sneakers since those had been the only part of his original outfit he had been considered about.

Hermione stepped back to admire her handiwork once she was done. "It isn't perfect," she said, "but it will do."

Ron checked himself over in the mirror with a grin. "I don't know, Hermione," he said. "I think I look a whole lot better than I did to begin with." The comment made her beam just like he knew it would.

"Oh, you're so lucky!" Hermione exclaimed.

Ron arched an eyebrow at her in the mirror. "Am I now?" he said.

Hermione puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. "_Yes_, you are," she replied. "Anyone in the opera house would give anything to be in your shoes. You're being shown favor by the de Chagny family, who are among the largest supporters of the Opera Populaire. If they were to back your career, and convince others to do the same, you could be unstoppable."

"And Christine de Chagny's voice is legendary," Harry said. "She was the last great soprano to perform at the Opera Populaire." His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as his two friends turned towards him with curious expressions. "What? That's what I heard from Madame Giry. She said that Christine's voice was perfection. If I had the chance to meet her then I would want to get all the advice from her that I could."

"It sounds like you're starting to accept your role," Hermione said.

"Trying to," Harry shot back with a roll of his eyes.

Ron might have jumped in if it hadn't been for a knock at the door. Hermione flew to open it before he could, allowing Meg to step into the room.

It didn't take long for her gaze to fall on Ron, a huge smile lighting up her face when she did. "You look wonderful," she said, "and just in time too. Philippe has just arrived."

Ron shoved away the nerves that leapt up at that announcement. He hadn't been put in Gryffindor for nothing and, after all, he had told Erik that he could do this. "I suppose I should probably go meet him then." He glanced back at his friends. "Thanks for all the help you two."

"You're welcome," Hermione said. "And good luck!" All it took was a small nod and smile from Harry to know that he was offering up the same response.

Ron offered them a final smile before heading towards the door. He was about to leave when Meg placed a hand on his arm. He looked down at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

When Meg spoke her voice was pitched low so that only he could hear. "Be careful," she said.

Ron could only nod in response. He did find it ironic, though, that she had told him the same thing Erik had.

* * *

It turned out that Philippe hadn't driven himself to come fetch Ron from the opera house, despite knowing how. Instead he had used a driver, a man named Francis who had apparently been with the family for ages. It had seemed a little strange to Ron, although he didn't spend much time thinking about it since everything about Muggle transpiration tended to confuse him in some way.

Besides, it gave him some sense of privacy as he talked with Philippe. The conversation between the two of them was never at a lapse, the other easily coming up with something to prolong it or even cause it to grow. Ron had a smile on his face nearly the whole time as did Philippe. It would only slip when he would catch Francis sending the two of them fond looks in the rearview mirror.

The conversation didn't fall away until they reached the estate. Mostly because Ron became too caught up in gaping at the place. Not that this could be held against him, though, since it was impressive. It was like someone had decided to condense a castle into a manor house.

Ron closed his mouth once he realized Philippe was chuckling next to him. He swatted at the other boy, although he couldn't bring himself to be truly angry. "Oi, not all of us get to live in 'manor estates', my Lord."

Philippe stopped laughing, but his eyes were still warm with humor. "And not all of us get to live in grand opera houses, my star."

Ron rolled his eyes, ignoring the heat that prickled in his cheeks at being referred to as Philippe's anything. "I don't live there full time," he said. "I do have a home back in England, you know."

"I remember," Philippe said. He fiddled with the buttons on his shirt for a moment. "Can I ask what it's like?"

"Nothing like this," Ron replied. It was the easiest answer to offer.

Philippe smoothed his hands across his legs. "I might like to see it some day," he said, "if you would allow it."

Ron thought about the Burrow with its mismatched shape, the rooms all smushed together, and the rickety structure. He couldn't imagine Philippe, who was as elegant as the architecture he was surrounded by, in such a place. Not to mention that it would be full of magic.

He swallowed hard, cutting off that train of thought. "I don't think you would like it," he said.

He hadn't been expecting the hand that covered his. He looked up to find Philippe staring at him, expression soft.

"Let me be the judge of that, alright?" Philippe said. The sincerity in his voice made Ron's mouth turn dry, especially since the other didn't even know what he would be facing.

Neither of them noticed that the car had stopped until there came a polite knock on the door. It was more than enough to break the moment that had passed between them. Ron skidded backwards on the seat, his hand jerking away from Philippe's as a result. He miss the look of disappointment that crossed the other boy's face before he nodded at Francis, who opened the door for him, allowing him to get out and hold Ron's door open for him.

* * *

The inside of the estate was just as grand as the outside, everything done up in gold and cream tones and polished until sparkled under the lights. Ron didn't have much time to admire it, however, before someone, petite and covered in a subtle, sweet smell, threw their arms around him. He recognized the musical voice that came next almost instantly, however.

"You must be Ron Weasley!" The Vicomtesse de Chagny beamed up at him as she pulled away. "Philippe has told me so much about you!"

It took Ron a moment to recover enough to remember that he was suppose to behave as though he hadn't met her before. "Indeed I am." He inclined his head to Christine politely. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"Please, call me Christine," Christine replied. He had to bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing at the wink she gave him.

"You must excuse my wife. She has been very excited about meeting you."

Ron's head darted up at the intrusion of this new, deeper voice to find himself staring at an older man. This had to be the Vicomte de Change—Raoul. He was struck for a moment by just how much the man reassembled his son. His hair was blonde like his wife's, but with a darker tint to it, more like honey, and his eyes were a warm hazel shot through with flecks of gold.

When faced with the man himself, Ron could understand in a way just why Erik loathed him so much. The Vicomte had everything that Erik had hungered for, for so long—freedom, love, and even beauty.

Ron cast the man a small smile. "It's no problem, sir," he said. "I've been just as excited to meet her."

Raoul shook his head with a smile. "No, no," he said, "if you can call my wife Christine than you can call me Raoul."

Ron found his own smile widening. "Fair enough," he said.

Christine reached out to place her hand gently on his arm. "And now that the introductions are out of the way," she said, "we should head to the dining room. I had the staff set out lunch a few minutes ago." Her brow furrowed faintly in concern. "I hope it will be to your liking."

"I am sure it will," Ron assured her.

Christine beamed up at him before moving over to her husband, who held out his arm to escort her to the dining room.

Ron shot a look at Philippe as the other boy stepped forward to do the same. "Don't even think about it," he said. "I'm not a woman, so I don't need an escort."

Philippe lifted his eyebrows in amusement. "If you insist," he said. He took a few steps forward, waiting until Ron began to follow after him to move towards the dining hall in earnest.

* * *

The dining hall contained an incredibly long table of polished dark wood, yet the small group sat in the middle of it with Raoul and Christine on one side and Ron and Philippe on the other. The space between them was covered with all sorts of food from dainty miniature sandwiches to thick slices of ham.

Ron began to pile his plate with food immediately only to pause, face flushing with color, as he realized that the others will only putting a few items of food on their plate a time. "I'm sorry," he said, eyes darting downwards.

Christine waved a hand at him. "There's no need to apologize," she said. "You forget that I grew up in the Opera Populaire. I remember what the meals were like there well enough to know that a spread like this is quite a treat."

"The food there isn't so bad," Ron said. But even he knew that he was only protesting out of courtesy.

"There is no need to defend it to me," Christine said. "It is my pleasure to provide you with a lunch that is not a bowel of soup and a piece of bread. So please dig in!"

The rest of the meal passed in idle small talk with some stories of Philippe's youth being shared. Ron enjoyed those a great deal, if only because of how Philippe would turn bright red when certain tales were shared.

It was Raoul, surprisingly enough, who brought the conversation towards music, however. "We were hoping that we could convince you to sing for us after lunch, Ron," he said. "Philippe always returns from each opera raving about how incredible you were."

"And I thank him for it," Ron said. "It won't take much convincing to get me to sing. It's something that I enjoy to do and I would be honored to do it for you."

"Actually," Christine said, "I was hoping you wouldn't mind performing a duet." Her cheeks took on a faint rosy hue as Ron looked at her in surprise. "It's just been so long before I encountered anyone who could match my voice. It would be a pleasure to sing with you."

Ron felt a rush of pride that Christine thought that his voice was actually a match for hers. "I would love to sing with you," he said. "I just hope I'll be as good as you think I am."

"Oh, I have no doubt of it," Christine said. She shook her head. "I still find it baffling that neither you nor Mademoiselle Porter have ever been formally taught. Although I suppose the opera house must have provided you with teachers by now."

"Well, yes," Ron said, "at least for Ha—Harrietta" He stumbled over the name, remembering at the last second that he was suppose to use Harry's female alias.

Christine, however, didn't seem to have noticed. She rose her eyes from her meal, a small furrow between her brows. "But you need a teacher as well, surely," she said. "I don't mean to speak unkindly, but raw talent can only carry a performer so far."

"I know that, believe me," Ron replied. "It's just that there wasn't any need for the opera house to provide me with a teacher."

"So you found someone unconnected to the place?" Raoul said. "That seems like a risky move."

"Perhaps," Ron said, "but well worth it. He has made my voice reach heights I never believed possible. He's an incredibly brilliant man."

"But he's far too possessive," Philippe said. "He kept you locked away like some princess in a tower throughout your whole break."

Ron turned towards the other boy with a frown. "He was giving me lessons," he said, "making sure that I would be ready to perform properly when I returned to the opera house."

Philippe shrugged as he took a sip of his drink. "So he's overly strict than," he said. "Doesn't seem like much of a difference to me."

Ron was about to retort, prepared to defend Erik, when Christine cut into the conversation.

"How did you meet him?"

There was a strange sort of strain to her voice that Ron couldn't understand the cause of, but he saw no reason not to answer the question. "I met him as a child, actually," he said, "when I first came to Paris. My family had decided to go to the opera house on our last night in the city and I went off to explore during the after party. He found me singing in the Chapel."

"And he liked your voice?" Christine prompted.

"Yes," Ron said. "He offered to train me and was quite disappointed to learn that I would be returning to England soon. I was determined to have him teach me, though, so I promised to return once I was older. And the trip arranged by my school was the perfect way to ensure that."

"You seem very fond of him," Christine said, softly.

"That's because I am." Ron was unable to keep a smile from his face. "He's not just my teacher, but my friend."

"Can I ask what his name is?" Christine asked.

"Uh…" Ron swallowed hard, feeling like all eyes were suddenly on him. He couldn't blurt out the real name of his teacher, not when Christine would surely recognize it, so he went with the first one to come into his mind. "Charles…Charles Destler!"

"Hm…" Raoul stroked at his chin. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

"I didn't think he would have," Ron said. "I'm afraid he's a bit of a recluse." The word seemed more than slightly like an understatement.

"Well, if you can ever convince him to come out," Christine said, "I would dearly like to meet him. You make him sound like a very interesting man."

There was a note of challenge in her voice that made Ron have to resist the urge to squirm in his chair. She couldn't possibly know the truth, could see?

Either way, Christine's face was impossible to read as she flashed him an enormous smile. "But I am quite finished with my lunch now. Why don't we see what this brilliant teacher of yours has taught you?"


	20. A Duet and Unexpected Announcements

Christine was positively glowing as she led them into the music room. "Raoul made sure that each major place that we stay in had one. Of course, the one at our country estate is much bigger because we stay there more, but I have a fondness for this one."

And Ron could see why she would. The room was arranged like a parlor with plush chairs and settees placed near small tables. The only real thing that marked it as a music room was the grand piano in the center. The whole place gave off a cozy feel that put Ron at ease, even though he was nervous about singing with a soprano of Christine's caliber.

The Vicomtesse placed them all in their proper positions upon entering the room. Raoul wound up in a settee near the piano while Philippe was placed at the instrument himself since, as it turned out, he could play it. Then she went off to trail her finger across the spines of musical scores that littered the bookshelves. She let out a small, pleased sound when she found what she was looking for, plucking it off the shelf.

"How familiar are you with _La Traviata_?" she asked Ron.

"Not very," Ron admitted.

"Then I hope you don't mind me introducing you to it," Christine said. "We'll sing it in English instead of the Italian, of course." She headed over to the piano, flipping through the pages of the score until she reached the part she wanted and placed it open on the score. "I'll turn the pages for you, Philippe. Now Ron…" She turned towards him with a slightly mischievous look, crooking her finger at him. "Don't be nervous. Come over here."

Ron did as he was bid, moving over to stand next to her at the piano. He peered over at the piece that the score had been opened to familiarizing himself with the notes. "'The Day I Met You,'" he read.

"It really is a lovely piece," Christine said. "Are you ready to sing it?" She grinned in response to his nod before nodding to Philippe who started up the music.

Ron waited until the piano had struck the cue for his entrance to begin to sing.

"_The day I met you_

_O blessed day_

_When first you came before me_

_When I beheld a vision_

_Dreamed of love yet to be_

_Dreamed of a love that would fill my life for me_

_Love that would banish the world and all its madness_

_Mystic and holy_

_Blending both joy and sadness_

_Holy, mystic and holy_

_Happy and holy_

_Happy and free."_

Christine began her own part as his faded away and Ron knew then that none of the descriptions of her voice had been over exaggerated. If anything they hadn't done it justice.

"_Really my friend you frighten me!_

_You must not dare to love me_

_Your love is far above me_

_Alas I fear you must forget me_

_Mine is a heart for lighter love_

_I must be free to wander_

_I pray you not to squander your love on such as me."_

Their voices blended together throughout the rest of the song, restating the lines that had already been sung. Both were so lost in the music, however, that they had no idea of how beautiful their voices sounded together, rising with emotion as one.

Ron found his lines shifting towards the end and he let his voice slide into the change.

_"What rapture our love might be_

_What gladness for you and me_

_Think of the rapture for you and me."_

The high "Ah!" note that came next was slightly surprising, but he was able to match it to Christine's without too much trouble, which he was thankful for.

_"Ah!"_ he sang for the final line. _"That love like this might be!"_

Christine sang with him with a line similar to his own, but with different wording. _"Ah! Such love can never be!"_

Their voices faded away after that, although neither of them was really aware of the thunderous applause they were receiving from the other two people in the room.

Ron turned towards Christine, words of praise already on his lips, only to pause after he saw that her eyes were already on him. Her gaze seemed slightly glassy, however. "Christine, are you—"

"You," she murmured, "you really are…_his_."

Ron was about to ask just what she meant by that when her eyes suddenly rolled up towards the ceiling, her legs crumpling underneath her.

Everyone reacted as one, but since Ron was already at her side, it was his arms that caught her. She clutched onto his shirt as he did so, pulling herself up towards him with a determined expression on her face. When she spoke, her mouth was right at his ear, ensuring that the words were only heard by him.

"Treat him better than I did."

Ron found himself handing Christine over to her husband by route when Raoul demanded him to, his mind still processing what she had said to him.

There was only one "him" that he could think she was referring to—and that was Erik.

* * *

Philippe led Ron out to the car not long after that. The other boy, and his father, made countless apologizes over how his visit had ended by Ron had simply shook his head understandingly. He knew that it had been nobody's fault and he was more worried about how Christine was faring. The family physician had checked her over, assuring them all that it had just been a collapse due to an overemotional state. Still, Ron was worried about what had worked her up into that condition along with the meaning behind her cryptic words.

Philippe insisted on accompanying him on the ride back to the opera house. And, in the end, Ron was grateful for it since their conversation kept his mind away from any anxious thoughts. He actually got so lost in talking to the other boy that he was surprised by how quickly they seemed to reach the Opera Populaire.

Ron turned towards Philippe with a smile. "Well, thank you for having me to lunch," he said. "I really did enjoy myself despite how things turned out in the end."

Philippe grinned back at him. "Well, that's good since I imagine my parents will be making up an excuse to have you back quite soon."

Ron's expression turned wry at that. "So it won't just be you then?" he said.

Philippe ducked his head, his own expression a mixture between embarrassment and amusement. "Well, me too, of course," he said. "I guess that goes without saying at this point."

"Yes, it really does," Ron chuckled. "Although you'll have to wait until after my next performance is over. I'm sure you'll jump at the chance to invade my dressing room then, anyway." He was about to turn towards the door when a hand shot out, grabbing onto his arm. He shot Philippe a questioning look over his shoulder. "Is there something I forgot?" he asked.

"No, I just…I… Wait a moment." Philippe turned in his seat, pressing a button that made a small, black divider rise up, cutting them off from Francis. "He shouldn't be hearing this," he explained. "It's something private."

"Private?" Ron echoed.

"Yes," Philippe replied. "You see, I…well…" He ran a hand through his hair, seeming more than a little bit nervous. "I'm not sure how to put this."

"Then just spit it out," Ron said. "It will feel better once it's off your chest." And he would finally be able to understand what had the other boy acting so strangely.

"Alright then." Philippe took a deep breath before looking up, locking his eyes with Ron. "I want to court you."

Ron was unable to control his reaction to this as he scrambled backwards in his seat. "You want to do _what_?" he squawked. He could hear Madame Giry's words resounding in his head: _"You a singer with extraordinary natural talent, are being courted by a de Chagny…"_

"I did say I wouldn't give up on you," Philippe frowned.

"Yes, I know, but…" Ron took a deep breath, trying to calm himself back down. "It's just that this whole courting thing is something you're suppose to do with a girl, not a boy."

"You're suppose to do it with someone you care about," Philippe said, "someone you can see yourself spending the rest of your life with."

Ron felt his mouth turn dry. He didn't think he had ever seen the other boy look as serious as he did now. "You can't honestly say that's what you want from me," he muttered.

"And if I can?" Philippe shot back. He reached out to wrap his fingers around Ron's chin, ignoring how the boy jumped at his touch. "Because that really is what I want, Ron."

Then he began to move closer, his intentions clear, and Ron was left frozen, unable to decide what to do. There was a part of him that just wanted to give in, accept the kiss and even return it. He had been kissed before but it had always been by girls. Lavender had been the first with her passionate, if sloppy kisses, then Hermione, who always kissed so sweetly, before the two of them realized that they were better off as friends. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by a boy, if it would be rougher somehow, more forceful. The idea sent a thrill through him.

No sooner had he thought that, however, then all of Erik's warnings began to fill his head. He would never be able to produce an heir to the title that Philippe would inherit. If Philippe did choose him to spend the rest of his life with than the de Chagny line would die with him. The aristocracy would shun them and, in the end, Ron was sure that Philippe, who had been raised in a privileged lifestyle would hate him for that.

Besides, Philippe didn't even know about his magic. There was no way of knowing if he would accept it as well as Erik had or if he would reject it.

The thought of Philippe looking at him in disgust was more than he could bear and it was what caused him to shove the other boy away just when their lips were about to touch.

Philippe looked up at him from where he was sprawled out across the seat in astonishment. "Ron, what—"

"I can't," Ron said. "I can't do this. I refuse to be your…your…_secret lover_."

"Secret lover?" Philippe said. "But you won't be that! I would never keep you secret."

"But you would have to," Ron said, "because no one would ever accept our relationship. It's better if you just find that nice, respectable girl they all expect you to be with. Or any girl, really."

Philippe's hand darted out to grab onto Ron's, holding him there. "But I don't want some girl like that!" he exclaimed. "I want you!"

Ron might have lowered his eyes, but he was a Gryffindor and they were brave, so he met Philippe's eyes as he spoke instead. "No one would ever accept us. And, eventually, you would hate me for it." He ripped his hand away from Philippe after that, bolting from the car before the other boy could say anything else.

* * *

**The song that Ron and Christine sung together wasn't chosen without reason. I found that their separate parts are really all about their different feelings towards Erik. To break it down: Ron sings of a love that could be and Christine sings of a love that can't be.**


	21. Comfort

Ron was glad that he didn't encounter anyone in the hallways as he made his way to his dressing room. It seemed like everyone was taking advantage of their free day by spending it out of the opera house. If they had seen him than they would certainly have asked how his visit with the de Chagny family had been and he didn't think he could come up with a proper response at the moment, not with what he had just experienced.

He rushed into his dressing room once he reached it, slamming the door shut behind him. He just wanted to change back into his normal clothes before retreating back to the ballet dormitories to relax. Then he would be able to face the others after they came back without telling them anything about what had happened with Philippe.

He didn't realize that he wasn't alone until he turned around to see a familiar, tall shape there before him. "Erik…"

"You are late." The words were spoken with all the harsh, resounding nature of a thunderclap. "Did the de Chagny family keep you so preoccupied that you didn't even think to check the time? You foolish boy, rehearsals for _Carmen_ begin tomorrow, for which you are woefully unprepared. I had thought that that idiot boy would at least have the sense to bring you back before three, but it seems I can't even rely on him for that. Now there will be no time for you to practice before you are whisked away by the ballet rats to be interrogated over dinner."

He continued on with angry rambling, but Ron was hardly listening by that point. Philippe had already thrown his heart into an emotional turmoil. He had made the right decision, he was _sure_ of it. Yet it still felt like a part of his heart had been torn out and he hated himself for that. Philippe was only suppose to be his _friend_, nothing more, although now he had to wonder if they could even be that anymore.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly jumped out of his skin when fingers brushed across his cheeks.

"You're crying," Erik said.

"Am I?" Ron reached up to rub at his cheeks, barking out a laugh as he felt the dampness there. "I guess so then. It's not your fault, though. I mean, I'm use to you getting like this—"

Erik cut across him, voice still powerful even when soft. "Ron, what happened?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. This wasn't something that he could tell Erik about. Hell, this wasn't something he could tell _anyone_ about. He stiffened in shock, however, as arms reached out to enfold him.

"No matter what it is, child," Erik said, "I won't be angry. I only want to know what has put you into such a miserable state."

Perhaps it was those words that broke him, or maybe it was the arms around him, but either way Ron found himself sinking into Erik, burrowing his face into the man's chest. "It was Philippe." The words were spilling out of him in a rush now. "He waited until he was bringing me back here and offered to court me. I didn't know how to react and then he tried to…to…kiss me." He could feel Erik go tense against him at that admission, but he kept barreling on. "But all I could think about was what you had told me, about how I would never be anything other than a secret lover who would be discarded when the time came. And I just couldn't do it. I had to get away from him."

Erik was silent for a long moment. "Ron, I am going to ask you something and you must answer me truthfully." He took a deep breath. "Are you in love with Philippe de Chagny?"

Ron's head darted up then, although his eyes dropped away from his teacher's face. "It's not that simple," he muttered. "I just want to be his friend, that's all, but my heart keeps acting like…" He shook his head. "I don't _want_ to love him."

Erik raised his hand cautiously, waiting a minute before threading his fingers through those red strands of hair. Ron had given him permission to touch him, but that didn't stop him from being hesitant. He could still remember how Christine would flinch away unconsciously whenever he tried to touch her. Ron, however, merely responded to the touch with a soft sigh, his cheek landing on Erik's chest.

"Forget that fool," he found himself murmuring. "He cannot reach you here."

* * *

Erik made his way to Ron's dressing room the next day through the passageway behind the mirror. The boy wasn't in the room when he arrived, but that was hardly surprising since rehearsals had just gotten out. Ron had been able to manage just fine, even without being familiar with the score beforehand, but Erik still planned on maintaining the same lesson plan that they had had before. Ron had flourished under such treatment before so there was no reason why he shouldn't this time.

Erik had planned on remaining behind the mirror until Ron arrived, but, as he stared out at the room, something caught his eye.

There was a bouquet of yellow roses, tied together with a white ribbon, placed on the vanity.

It wasn't that it was unusual for flowers to be delivered to the dressing rooms of the stars. Far from it, in fact. Whenever there was a performance the dressing rooms were normally close to overflowing with flowers sent from those in the audience that wanted to show their support, filling the room with their sweet, lingering scent for days.

But this wasn't a performance day and surely any flowers meant for Ron would have been delivered to the boy instead. Unless they had been ordered to be sent here instead.

Erik was unable to contain his curiosity, moving the mirror aside so that he could move out into the dressing room. He was already running through all the meanings behind yellow roses as he approached the vanity. People's minds tended to jump to the most circulated implication behind this color of roses, which was friendship, but there were many other meanings as well. And many were much less sweet than what was usually associated with roses. There was a broken heart, dying love, extreme betrayal, and…

"Apology," Erik said. He took the card placed next to the flowers, already knowing who had to be from, even as he turned it over to see the de Chagny stamp on the back.

The right thing to do was to leave the card where it was so that Ron could read it when he returned. But Erik had never been good at doing the right thing.

_And besides,_ he thought as he slid the letter into the pocket of his cloak, _hasn't the boy already done enough damage?_

* * *

**Uh oh, Erik made a mistake there. Ron won't be happy with Erik trying to control that part of his life or not trusting him to be able to handle the letter. Although, if Erik had it his way, Ron would never really leave the opera house.**


	22. Blessings

Despite Erik's rather dismal predictions, Ron didn't have a great deal of trouble when it came to _Carmen_. He did stumble over the lines at first, having to be coached through the proper tones more than usual, but through the combination of his own vigor and Erik's stern teaching, you wouldn't have known it by the second day.

It came as a disappointment to those who had been wondering if their lead tenor had at last lost the spark that had been carrying him along since the start. It would have made for a good story to sell to the papers.

Everyone, even his best friends, were surprised by how thoroughly Harry threw himself into the role of Carmen, however. He was excited to get the chance to play a female role with some independence to it. He had a way of dominating the stage once on it in a fashion that was almost reminiscent of Carlotta. It had caused his friends to double over in laughter when he revealed that the former diva was actually who he was channeling for the inspiration.

Some people had fretted over the possibility that Harry's new, overblown approach to the stage would steal away all of the spotlight. Many of them could well remember what it had been like when Carlotta had performed, demanding that all the attention go to her. Her over the top screeching had made Piangi fall into the background during his time and had done the same to Jacques when his time came.

Erik, however, had no such worries.

Harry might draw attention with his vibrant Carmen, but the sharp contrast of Ron's gentler Don José ensured that all eyes would shift to him when necessary.

They possessed the balance that no one paired with Carlotta could ever hope to achieve and they came by it naturally.

Perhaps it was due to all the trials that Ron had described to him, all those years of having to depend on each other. He had noticed that all three of them hardly had to speak without one of the others understanding their thoughts or what was needed. It was impossible to imagine any of them being separate from the other and Ron had only laughed when Erik confessed this to him, saying that it had been a common feeling at their school as well.

It was enough to make Erik feel a twinge of jealousy at times. He didn't seek to begrudge Ron his time with the friends who he plainly loved dearly, but sometimes, when watching them together, he would feel a strange twinge of yearning. For he had never had friends quite like that.

Any form of friendship had seemed like a comfort he would never have until Madame Giry and, yes, Nadir. But even though those two had already proven that there was little they would not do to protect him—a thing that made him feel like a burden at the worst of times—it was not quite the same as whatever existed between Ron and his two friends.

Their bonds seemed to transcend friendship. It was more like they were… Family, yes, that was the right word for it.

Yet his small bouts of jealousy were never able to last long. Ron would always find some way to extinguish such feelings without even realizing what he was doing. It would come in the way that Ron's eyes would light up whenever he came to the boy, showing true excitement at the fact that he was there.

And ever since Erik had been granted permission to touch Ron freely—something that he still grappled with—, Ron had taken to doing the very same. They were often absentminded little touches, things that, to Ron, surely seemed like the most common thing in the world. He would lay his hand upon Erik's arm or grab his elbow to catch his attention. He had even caught Erik's hand once so that he could direct it to the difficult place in the musical score that lay in front of them.

The most startling moment of all, however, had come during a lull in practice when Ron had leaned in against him without warning.

Erik had jerked back without being able to help it. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Ron had only stared at him with his wide eyes full of confusion. "I just… I just…" He had sunk his teeth into the softness of his bottom lip then, although his gaze had never wavered. "Isn't it alright to want to be close to you?"

Erik had blinked once, then twice before clearing his throat. "Are you sure that's what you—"

"Oh, bloody hell—_Erik_." His name had been said in a manner that seemed like it possessed some sort of scolding and then Ron had been pressed back against him. "You're not going to hurt me just by touching me."

And that… Well, how was Erik suppose to think of anything else in that moment then the incident all those years ago with Christine and the spiders, the ones that had reminded him so much of himself.

_"If one touched me, I think my heart would stop!"_

He kept forgetting that Ron was different, that he had been the one to say that it was perfectly alright to touch him. He was still afraid that there would come a day when Ron would shrink away from him or knock his hands away.

But it was hard to imagine such a thing happening at times like that one when—with trembling hands—he had reached out to hold Ron.

He knew that part of the reason Ron sought such comfort from him was because of Philippe, or rather, the absence of Philippe. He never addressed it with Erik, of course, but that didn't mean it went unnoticed. He had seen the way Ron's face fell each time he learned that no new notes had been brought him for him.

It was almost enough, at times, to make Erik wish that he could somehow bring back the letter that he had let the flames in his fireplace ravage. If only it would take that forlorn expression from Ron's face.

He tried not to read too heavily into such thoughts.

And, besides, he knew that he had done the right thing. Philippe had already proven that he could not be trusted to treat Ron with the proper care, so why should he be given a second chance? Erik was quite sure the foolish boy would manage to ruin any other attempts he was given.

Ron himself had said that he didn't want to love Philippe anyway and if the feelings had been caught early enough than they would fade away without too much pain.

* * *

By the end of the final rehearsal, Ron found his body thrumming with energy, despite how exhausted he still felt. The groans of those around him let him know that he was one of the exceptions to that fact, though.

Monsieur Reyer would never let his subjects go until he was satisfied that they had come as close to perfection as possible. It could be frustrating at times, of course, but there would always be those in the company who were just as determined to achieve that flawless quality and would seize upon his direction.

Hermione was rather obviously one of those people from the way she sunk down on the chaise in Ron's dressing room, her troubled expression not fading as she undid her ballet shoes so that she could rub at her feet.

"I think I still got that step wrong." She had brought this point up so often that the boys didn't even bother asking which dance she was referring to. "I thought I would have been able to get it down by now."

"Oh, come on, Hermione. If Madame Giry didn't say anything then I'm sure you did just fine." Harry poured the freshly warmed water in the pitcher that had been left into the basin on the vanity. He snatched up one of the fluffy hand towels next so that he could dip it into the water and start wiping off all of his makeup.

It had been a full dress rehearsal that day since the night of the performance was only a day away, so Harry was still in full female garb. The whole thing was remarkably normal now.

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. "I'm still going to practice it," she said.

"Course you are." Harry tipped his head back with a groan. "Just like Monsieur Bellard will make me go over that the whole bloody song again just because I got that one note wrong during rehearsal."

"You mean the note you kept getting wrong." Hermione raised her eyebrows when Harry shot her a sharp look. "You're only upset because you know I'm right." Her eyes shifted over to Ron. "What about you, Ron? Do you think Monsieur Destler will work you just as hard for tonight's lesson?"

Ever since Ron had come up with the name of Charles Destler in response to Christine's probing questions, it had been seized upon and religiously circulated by the ballet girls. Apparently there were more people interested in his mysterious teacher and benefactor than he had originally thought.

"You know he will," Ron said. "He'll want me to run through every song in the whole opera and pick them all apart until he's found every flaw imaginable in them."

"I think I'm starting to realize why singers become so dramatic," Harry said.

His friends were still laughing in agreement by the time there came a polite rapping from the other side of the door. The three of them all froze, exchanging curious looks between themselves.

"They can't want to summon us back now, can they?" Hermione said. "This is supposed to be our break, after all."

"Maybe it's just someone delivering flowers a bit early," Harry suggested. "Or a message."

That last idea sent a small thrill of anticipation through Ron, although he wished that he could deny it. He knew that his last encounter with Philippe had ended disastrously, but he had still held out hope that the other boy might send some sort of note or other token to show that everything was still well between them. As the weeks continued to pass, however, it was starting to seem like that would never happen.

A sigh escaped from him, which had more to do with his current thoughts then the situation at hand. "Well I guess we'll never know unless we go check." He rose from his place at the vanity to move over to the door, opening it while Harry and Hermione watched expectantly.

He was unable to stop himself from inhaling sharply when he saw who was there, however. "Vicomtesse!"

Christine had hidden her face once again with the dark veil that hung off the front of her hat, but her figure was unmistakable to Ron now. She was flanked by Madame Giry, who seemed rather uncomfortable with who she had had to escort to Ron's dressing room. It was plain that she didn't know the reason why Christine had come anymore than Ron did.

Harry and Hermione, on the other hand, had snapped to attention at Ron's exclamation since, as far as they knew, there was only Vicomtesse who their friend was on such intimate terms with.

Christine's voice came out rather sheepishly from behind her veil. "I'm sorry to have come at such a busy time, but my husband was very strict about keeping me in a period of relaxation after my…my fainting spell."

"Oh, right, of course he would be." Ron stepped back away from the door, gesturing into the dressing room. "Would you like to come inside?"

Christine dipped her head in a nod before stepping onto the threshold. She paused there, glancing back over her shoulder at Madame Giry. "I'm sorry, Madame, but is it alright if…"

Madame Giry nodded in response to the question that was left hanging. "Of course. And I will take the Mademoiselles Harrietta and Hermione along with me."

Harry snapped to attention at the mention of his name—or rather his alias—while Hermione all but leapt up off the chaise, her cheeks flushing with color when she realized that she was standing there barefoot. She snatched her ballet shoes up from the chaise tugging them hurriedly onto her feet and redoing the laces.

Christine didn't seem to mind at all, however, lifting her veil now that she was in the safety of the dressing room to reveal one of her warm, dazzling smiles. "Oh, I've been so eager to meet the two of you!"

"Really?" Now even Harry looked like he was about to start blushing.

Ron had to press his lips together to keep from laughing and a quick glance back at Madame Giry showed that she was in a similar state. He had grown so use to Christine's company now that he had forgotten how easy it was to become overawed in her presence.

"Of course!" Christine stepped forward, her smile not faltering for a second. "Surely Ron has told you how much I admire your voice, mademoiselle."

Harry's eyes rounded. "I…uh…I mean, well, he mentioned it, but…"

There was something fond in Christine's expression now and she reached out to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder. "It is good to see you have not let the fame go to your head," she said, "but you are in possession of a beautiful instrument. One you should be proud of."

Harry's lips spread into a wide smile, his eyes filling with warmth. "Thank you," he said. "I'll do my best to remember that."

"You should," Christine said, mock serious. "Although I suppose the crowds will be all to ready to remind you." She turned towards Hermione next, reaching out her hands to her. "And you! Madame Giry was telling me all about you on my way here. Is it true that you've already had a chance to dance a lead part?"

Unlike with Harry, Hermione flushed with pride almost instantly. It was hardly a bad look on her, though, not when combined with her evident happiness. There was little that Hermione enjoyed more, after all, than having her progress noticed by someone she held in esteem. "Yes, Madame," she said, "although I would never have gotten there without Madame Giry's guidance."

The lady in question scoffed fondly from her position in the doorway. "I can hardly take full credit," she said. "The girl is more dedicated than some of the girls who have been at it for years." She smiled a little when her statement made Hermione beam. "But now, truly, I believe it is time for us to excuse you."

The atmosphere that descended once the goodbyes were dispensed with and his friends were bustled out of the room with Madame Giry was an awkward one. Ron couldn't forget, after all, the words Christine had been determined to say to him before she fainted.

"Um, I'm sorry, Madame," he said. "Would you like to sit down?"

Christine nodded, sitting down in the dainty armchair. She waited until Ron had settled into the chair in front of the vanity before she said anything. "I am sure you have realized by now that I know who your teacher is." She raised her hand when Ron's mouth sprung open. "It was something I suspected from the moment Madame Giry gave you that rose. There use to be ones just like it waiting for me after each performance. And then once I heard you sing…" She lowered her eyes. "I knew you had to be his. Only he knows how to bring a voice to such heights."

"Vicomtesse…" Ron swallowed hard. "If you have come here to warn me…." He started in his seat when Christine actually laughed at his words.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I really am," Christine said. It took a minute or so for her giggles to subside, however, appearing visibly lighter once they had. "But you have nothing to fear on that score. Nothing at all!" She leaned forward a little, her eyes bright. "You see, I do not want to warn you away from Erik. I want to _thank_ you."

Ron wouldn't be surprised if his eyebrows had managed to shoot up into his hairline. "Thank me?" he echoed. "What for?"

"For giving Erik what I couldn't." Christine's hands twisted together in her lap. "I was unable to give Erik what he truly needed. I was… I was too weak for it." She sighed, shutting her eyes against the memories. "But you are so very strong." She opened her eyes, chuckling to herself. "And stubborn, I can see that. You wouldn't leave Erik even if I had come here to warn you away from him. And that is precisely what he needs. Someone who will remain by his side no matter what."

"So you're not worried about… I mean, you're not going to…"

He wasn't as startled by Christine's laughter this time. "No, I don't plan on telling anyone," she said. "Erik has found his happiness at last and I have absolutely no plans of disturbing it."

Ron found himself relaxing at last, able to smile at Christine now. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

Christine beamed at him. "You're very welcome." She drew a delicate silver watch from her pocket, rising from her chair once she saw what time it is. "Although if Erik still keeps his lessons as punctual as ever I suppose I should be leaving you now."

Yet when Ron escorted her to the door, she reached out to grab his arm. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I must speak on behalf of my son. I do not know what passed between you, nor will I ask, but I know your separation weighs on his mind."

Ron wasn't sure what to make of that at first, but then he realized there was only one answer he could give. Or at least only one that would let his mind finally be at ease. "Tell him to come to the opening night of _Carmen_ then," he said. "I can talk to him once it's over."

Christine's expression brightened instantly. "Oh, thank you!" she said. She pressed a kiss to Ron's cheek before flipping her veil back over her face and bustling down the hall.

Ron tried to hold onto the relief he had felt earlier over the knowledge that Christine wouldn't try to interfere in his relationship with Erik, but it was slipping away fast under the worries of what would pass between him and Philippe.

He closed the door, trying to banish such thoughts from his mind. Erik would notice his distraction if he wasn't careful and he didn't want to explain what he had agreed to. He knew Erik well enough to predict the protective fury that would result.

He nearly jumped out of his skin, therefore, when he turned around to find the very man he'd been thinking of standing in his dressing room.

"_Merlin's beard_, Erik! What have I told you about…"

The rest of his words slipped away, however, when he realized just what state Erik was in.

His usual air of intensity had fallen away to show a strange sense of fragility. His eyes seemed almost awed, yet there was a sadness there that made Ron want to look away as his chest tightened.

Erik stepped forward, bracing his hand on the back of a nearby chair as he sunk down into it. "I never thought…" He shook his head as if straining for the words. "I never thought I would see her again, let alone receive her blessing."

Ron didn't even think before he moved forward, laying a hand on Erik's shoulder. "But it's a good thing, isn't it?" he said. "She doesn't blame you for anything—" Even if Christine hadn't said it out loud, he could tell it was true. "—and she wants you to be happy."

"Yes." Ron found his hand being plucked from Erik's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"And… Are you happy?"

The words left Ron's lips nearly unconsciously and just like that Erik's face cleared with a smile. "Indeed I am." He rubbed his thumb across Ron's knuckles. "Perhaps we could have our lesson down below today."

"Only if you cook dinner afterwards." Then, on an impulse, Ron added, "And don't wear your mask."

Erik's laughter was warm, rich. "Your wish is my command," he remarked wryly.


	23. The Fight

**And because things can never stay so happy for long...**

* * *

The opening night of _Carmen_, perhaps expectedly by now, went off without a hitch. Ron through himself into the performance with even more abandon than he usually did, determined to focus on the music and nothing else. Otherwise he didn't know how he was going to concentrate.

Besides, Hermione was all too ready to tell him what he hadn't dared to check for himself, rushing over to him once the performance was done. "He's here!" she said. "Philippe de Chagny, he's back!"

The ballet girls all perked up as one, trying so hard to look like they weren't actually eavesdropping that it was actually rather comical.

Meg, however, swooped in before it became too obvious that Ron was floundering for an answer. "Why of course he is," she said. "He has attend every performance this season. Why miss this one?"

Hermione's eyes lingered on Ron, her face pinched with worry, but she knew better than to say anything in front of the ballet rats.

No one knew precisely what had happened except for Erik, but it was obvious that _something_ must have happened. What else, after all, could account for Ron's complete avoidance of Philippe in conversation? Or the odd look that would come onto his face when he was brought up at all?

All it took was just one of the ballet girls to dare to skitter forward for Meg to whirl towards them, hands on her hips.

"And you lot, what are you still doing here? Have you forgotten how sloppy your steps were tonight? I wouldn't be surprised if_ Maman_ has you running drills all through the night!"

It was an exaggeration, of course, but this seemed lost on the younger members of the ballet corps. They exchanged rapid, wide eyed looks with each other while one girl even managed a small squeak of terror.

"That's what I thought," Meg said smugly. "Now off with you!" She waved her hands as she moved after them, making them all scuttle ahead like a bunch of brightly feathered birds.

It was the perfect distraction, as the rest of the backstage erupted into laughter, for Ron to slip away to his dressing room without being questioned further.

* * *

Ron nearly jolted in surprise when he found that Philippe was actually already waiting outside of his dressing room. He didn't seem to see Ron at all, however, pacing back and forth before the door. Every so often he would turn to raise his hand as if to knock only to wind up whirling away again, muttering to himself under his breath.

It didn't take much to realize what he was going through and, despite himself, Ron found himself laughing. "I'm not actually in there, you know." He sucked in a sharp breath when Philippe whirled around, however.

Christine had been vague when she had mentioned the toll that their separation was taking on Philippe, but there was no escaping from the evidence of it on his face. For someone so usually polished and put together, Philippe's clothes actually seemed slightly crumpled and the bags under his eyes were worryingly deep. Ron was distressingly sure that the red lines working their way through his eyes weren't from drinking either.

Ron didn't even realize he was moving forward until he felt himself taking hold of Philippe's wrist. The skin was as smooth as ever, but there was an overheated quality to it that he didn't like in the slightest.

He didn't think twice about yanking Philippe into the dressing room, kicking the door shut behind him before ushering the other boy down onto the chaise. He realized he probably looked ridiculously like his mum right now, but he was beyond caring at the moment.

"Are you sick?" He frowned. "Your skin is warm, but you don't feel—"

Philippe scowled abruptly, pushing his hand away. "Don't act like you care," he said.

Ron's eyebrows shot up only once before the anger seared through and he drew up straight, putting distance between him and Philippe. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. I thought you could manage to understand why I turned down, but you acting like a rich boy grown tried of his toys is just too much." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So I really was just another bit of flesh for you, eh?"

"_What_?" Ron had expected Philippe to look angry, not downright appalled. "That… That isn't right at all! I spelled it all out in my letter just so you wouldn't think that!"

"You didn't send me any bloody letter," Ron spat out, because, damn, that was still a sore spot.

Philippe shot up from the chaise, finally looking somewhere close to anger. "Yes, I did!" he snapped. "I sent it along with the yellow roses."

That snapped Ron out of his self-righteous anger for a moment, brow furrowing. "What?" Because he did remember finding yellow roses, bound together with a fine white ribbon. He had thought they were gifts from one of his many fans. It was an assumption that Erik had assured him must be the case, going so far as to toss the flowers off to the side when their lesson began.

_Erik_.

And all at once Ron found his anger shifting to another person entirely. He reached out to catch Philippe's wrist again, holding on tight so the other boy couldn't shake him off. "Philippe, I never got your letter," he said gently. "It must have gotten lost—" _Actually, I know for a fact it did. On _purpose_. _"—so this whole time I just thought…"

"That I didn't want you anymore." Philippe's whole face crumpled at once. "I didn't even… Oh, _Ron_." He shook his head. "Yellow roses are a sign of apology; that's why I sent them. I didn't want you to think that…" Ron let Philippe have his hand back this time, if only so he could run it through his hair, setting it askew even more. "I don't want to give you up, Ron. I would like nothing better then to be your friend once more if only you'll let me."

"Then prove it." Ron had to press his lips together at the quick flash of worry that flitted across Philippe's face when he knew how much his next words would please him. "I heard you had a whole list of entertainments planned for my first break. Why not put them into action for this coming one?"

Ron did give into laughter this time when Philippe's face lit up with all the joy of a young child. "Oh, thank you, Ron!" He seized Ron's hand, pressing a quick kiss to it. "You won't regret this, I promise."

"I'm sure, I won't," Ron said, laughter still in his voice. "But get home now. You need a good night's rest before you can even think of being seen out with me."

"I'll still be here to collect you bright and early," Philippe said.

"Ugh, not unless you want me to still be sleeping," Ron replied. The two of them were laughing like a pair of first years by the time they reached the door to the dressing room.

Philippe turned to catch his elbow then, eyes sparkling. "Shall I use my horses to come fetch you this time?" he asked.

"You have got to be kidding me," Ron chuckled. He batted Philippe away, shaking his head as the other boy still laughed. "Just come in whatever you bloody want so long as you've slept enough."

He atmosphere of the room changed the instant he shut the door, however, making Ron suck in a sharp breath. He wasn't sure how his room could possibly feel so cold. The hairs on the back of his neck were even starting to stand on end.

He heard Erik before he saw him.

"So that is all it takes then? A few sweet words and the promise of better things to come and you melt right into his arms. _Pah_!" With a sweep of his arm, Erik knocked over one of the many vases already waiting on Ron's vanity, sending it tumbling to the floor with a thud. "I had no idea you were so ease to manipulate."

"Bullshit," Ron snapped back.

That gave Erik pause, his mouth snapping shut. When he did speak, his voice was low. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Ron said. "_Bullshit_. You don't get to lecture me about being manipulated when you did it to me yourself." He stalked forward when Erik didn't answer him. "The letter, Erik? What did you do with the letter?"

"I burned it." The answer came so blandly that it made Ron choke out a laugh. "I knew what the boy was after and I could not leave you wide open to yet another opportunity to be hurt by him."

"But that wasn't your decision to make," Ron said. "It was mine! And you didn't trust me enough to make it. I can take care of myself. I'm not some little kid, you know."

The way that Erik's eyes flashed should have been a warning. "Really," he bit out, "for you are certainly throwing a tantrum like one at the present."

Ron wasn't even aware of his hand whipping back, but he knew exactly when it made contact with Erik's cheek. The force of it was enough to knock the mask askew and he could hear the smack ringing throughout the room.

And he regretted it the instant he did it.

"Oh, _Merlin_, Erik, I didn't mean—"

"I think it's quite obvious that you did." Erik's voice was stiff as he lifted his hands to straighten his mask. "Although you are correct. You are more then capable of taking care of yourself. So capable, in fact, that you have no need for me."

"Erik, that wasn't what I meant." Ron bit down on the inside of his mouth so not to sound too pleading, too broken. "You know that."

"Do I?" Erik drew back the mirror, the cool breeze from the corridor behind wafting against Ron's face. "Enjoy your newfound happiness while it lasts."

He was gone before Ron could utter another word.

* * *

**Hopefully people aren't too angry with Ron, but this is what happens when you put two characters with high tempers into an unpleasant argument. **

**As for next chapter, let's see how long Philippe actually manages to prove himself and whether or not Erik can hold out, hm?**


End file.
